Free Throwing Like a Girl by Weezie Kerr Mackey Page B

carefully the clothes kids wear to school, but I have no experience with the après-school attire. I call Christine’s cell for help and leave a message. I call Jen, who’s in the middle of an argument with her mom, and she says she’ll call back. But time is of the essence. Amy’s not much of a clotheshorse, so I skip her, and call my sister Beck in Boston. She’s eating pizza with friends and puts me on speakerphone. Not the kindest moment in the history of sisterhood.
    “Beck, I’m serious. I need to look casual and cool. But I don’t want to stand out in any way.”
    Laughter erupts and I can do nothing but wait for her reply.I’m desperate.
    “Jeans and my old light blue tie-dyed shirt.”
    “Not tie-dye,” someone groans in the background.
    “It’s a subtle tie-dye, just blue and white,” Beck defends. And then to me, in a quieter voice off speaker, “That shirt looks really good on you. It’s skimpy and faded and shows off your body. Seriously, it’s perfect.”
    I’m momentarily shaken by the compliment. This is rare for us. But I take her advice.
    When I come downstairs my mother glances at the outfit but doesn’t comment. Dad hasn’t gotten back from work yet and I’m watching the clock, hoping Mo gets here before he does.
    “Beck recommended I wear this,” I say.
    I’m not asking her opinion and it’s clear she understands that, when she says, “No later than ten thirty tonight.”
    I nod my agreement as Mo and Frannie pull into the driveway and run up the walk. They introduce themselves, bright and proper, to my mother, and I can see her relax a bit, relieved they appear to be good girls like Christine, Jen, and Amy. Mo looks adorable with her hair in pigtails and a Spring Valley sticker on her cheek, and Frannie’s casual in jeans and a T-shirt.
    We blast music in the car, not country western the way I pictured myself in cars with new Texas friends, but normal music—rock and rap. When we’re five minutes from the stadium I can already see the lights beaming into the sky as if an alien ship landed across the street from school. The lot is packed, and cars line the busy boulevard so Mo parks in the teachers’ lot, and we walk across the dark campus surrounded by kids of all ages, parents, even family dogs.
    “I didn’t think there’d be so many people,” I say.
    “They’re getting primed for the fall,” Frannie responds drily. “Don’t mistake this as support for the soccer team.”
    Mo tries to soften Frannie’s prejudice. “But at least people come.”
    “It’s something to do in the off-season,” Frannie says.
    “So, you hate football?” I ask Frannie, thinking about the fact that Nate played.
    “Not football, per se. It’s the principle of the thing. Should anything at any school be this adored and overfunded? I don’t care if you’re in Texas or Hawaii or wherever; all sports should be equal. Boys and girls.”
    Mo says, “We have this conversation a lot.”
    “And I don’t care if the football alums give a ton of money to the school. Good for them. Maybe if every athlete were treated the same, they’d all give money. Or maybe they already do and nobody remembers to mention it.” She shakes her head. “No more football talk. Sorry.”
    “Agreed,” Mo and I say together.
    The stands are full of people wearing purple and green. It’s hard to look at it for too long without shielding your eyes. The cheerleaders, Frannie explains, come out of retirement for this event and act put-out the entire evening. “They hang out with the football players until it’s time to go on, and then they have to fake like they’re into it.”
    Mo nudges Frannie. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about football anymore.”
    “There’s your boyfriend,” Frannie says, pointing out Nate.
    He’s standing with a group of football players, wearing his jersey, which after tonight I’m guessing he won’t put on again.
    “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, giving her a