Fight Like a Girl

h e a d g e a r

        

❝ If you screw things up in tennis, it’s 15-love. If you screw up in boxing, it’s your ass.❞

-Randall Cobb

        Everett’s busy trying to harass me again when I get a call.

“Why do you even come outside anymore? You know I’ll be here.”

“Because I know I’m better than you.” He laughs at my comment, as if I’m wrong by this. I know I’m not.

“You know, you don’t have a great deal of social skills.” I shrug. It’s not like I care, really, I’m my own person. “I’m coming to see you at your meet. Well, I have to. The boy’s team has to go.”

He says this like it’s a punishment, when really it should be treated like a privilege. I could yell at him, but it’s easy to see he’s just trying to get a rise out of me.

I’m stretching, preparing to go for a run. My phone begins to buzz in my pocket.

Karen Stoppel.

“Who is it?”

I decline the call.

“Toll free call.” I plug my headphones into my ears and take off. Everett follows, even though he’s not dressed for the occasion.

He plucks the headphone from my left ear.

“No, really. Who was it?”

“Leave me alone, okay? I didn’t ask for this.”

“Her first move is always a left hook.” I shake my head. I can’t tell why he’s doing this, and whether it’s the truth or not. It’s messing me up.

“Can you stop? Like, following me?”

“No. In fact, I’m incredibly turned on by the whole hatred thing, but I can tell you’re faking it.” He smirks. “Girls always are bad at faki-”

“Shut up! Just shut your freaking mouth, okay? I’m not faking it. You’re messing me up, I can’t tell why you’re telling me this. I honestly hate you- I’ve hated you since the day you whistled at me as if I was some toy. You act like girls are below you. You-you’re just like my coach.”

“Jeez, alright, no need to get feisty.” He turns around, and walks away. “Oh, and, I still think you’re hot!”

I roll my eyes. I want nothing to do with him.

I pick up my pace, and remember the call.

Karen.

What would she be calling about? I haven’t spoken to her in God knows how long, and I don’t plan on speaking to her anytime soon.

I run around the block a few times, and when I arrive back home I finish up my homework. It’s hard to focus with her call lingering at the back of my mind. I decide to throw myself into some practice.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Dad’s making dinner.

“Downstairs to practice.”

“Why don’t you go hang out with your friends? Or, perhaps, talk to that new family across the way?”

I laugh. I’ve had enough Everett for the day- scratch that- I’ve had enough Everett for the year.

“I don’t need friends. They only bring me down.”

“Okay, Lane.”

I know most teenagers need friends to rely on, but there’s no one who really supports me as much as Dad does. He’s a good enough friend.

I can support myself.