Free Jersey Angel by Beth Ann Bauman

waits for me to lift her over. As soon as I do, she springs into action, waving her shakers and shouting to the bleachers, “We’ve got spirit, we’ve got class, come on now, let’s get some sass.” I do a couple of cheers with her until I run out of steam.
    The drizzle stops, but the sun stays hidden. Feeling restless, I do a back handspring and muddy my hands. From where I stand I count three guys in the bleachers I slept with, another leaning on the fence. Then I count Joey and move in a half circle and count two more guys on the field and the assistant to the assistant coach, who doesn’t really count ’cause I only gave him a blow job. Then I lose count. I rub on cherry lip gloss, blinking into mist.
    I love the moment when the guy is mine, when the spell is cast. Everything else falls away and there’s only me and him. I wonder if there’s a right love and a wrong love. Is getting naked with a cute guy and watching his eyes soften and feeling my heart pound high in my chest—is that a little like the real thing?
    After the game, TB’s taking the kids to Olive Garden for an early dinner. I walk Mimi to his car, where Mossy my man sits all patient in the backseat, and think isn’t it funny how when you’re a kid so much of your life is planned for you. You just show up. There he sits, waiting for what’s next.
    “Get in,” TB says through the window. “You need some nutrition after all that hopping around.”
    “Nah. I have plans. But thanks,” I say.
    “You love Olive Garden,” Mimi says, giving me a yank. True, but Mom’s got a date tonight and no doubt TB wants to grill me on the specifics.
    “Bring me back a breadstick,” I tell her.
    I walk into the school, where Inggy’s in the locker room combing her shiny though staticky hair and putting on lip gloss.
    I lie down on the bench. “Want to hang out, Ing?”
    “I’m going over Cork’s,” she says, and in a lower voice, “Pot makes me horny.”
    “Okay.”
    “We’ll give you a ride.”
    Cork’s parked in the back of the school lot, where he lies across the hood of his mom’s Camry, and he lazily turns his head to us as we walk up. “What the feck, Ing? I’m waiting forever.”
    “Poor baby,” she says, slapping his leg.
    I slap his other leg for good measure and head to the backseat.
    Sherry whistles and motions Inggy or me or maybe both of us over. “I’ll go see her,” Inggy says, and trots off.
    Cork climbs in the front, and here we are, serendipitously, together. I poke him. “Come over later. After the party.”
    “You know, I’m not at your beck and call.” He looks out the window.
    “Yeah, so? You think I’m at yours?”
    He turns on the engine, and the car rumbles. “Did I sound like a dick?”
    “Pretty much,” I say.
    “You think we should stop?”
    “No. But I would. I mean, if you want to.”
    “I would too if you want to.”
    “We’re willing,” I say, as if it means something.
    Cork nods but still doesn’t look at me.
    “What’s up?” I climb clumsily into the front seat, my skirt riding high on my thighs.
    He puts on a pair of dark sunglasses and checks himself in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes I feel like a dickweed. Mostly not, you know, but sometimes.”
    “So today you feel like a dickweed?”
    “Yeah, Cassonetti, today I feel like a dickweed.”
    “Look at me,” I say.
    He takes off the glasses and locks eyes with me. I try to read him but I see what I always see: a soft smile and his eyes at a low burn.
    He slides his hand under my cheerleading skirt and hooks the crotch of my underwear. We both watch Inggy out the window. She has an arm around Sherry and they’re talking with their faces down. Sherry’s due in a few weeks and her belly is impossibly huge. Fall leaves swirl aroundtheir feet. What is it about swirling yellowed leaves that makes me feel sad? Cork slides his finger in and out of me—wet and slow and delicious. I let my eyes close for a second.
    Inggy walks back to