Page 179 of Rock Bottom Girl
I ripped it up, sending ragged slivers of paper across my desk. Inside, I found a We’re Sorry greeting card.
Dear Coach,
We’re sorry for disappointing you.
Love Always,
Your Team
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why couldn’t anyone understand? I’d disappointedthem. They’d given me their all, and I’d letthemdown.
A second smaller envelope shoved under my phone caught my eye.
It was addressed toKidnapper.
Dear Coach,
My mom died of cancer when I was six. My dad made a series of poor life choices and has been in and out of prison ever since. I’ve been moved from foster home to foster home for ten years. But Culpepper, this school, this team was the first time I felt like I ever belonged.
You made me feel like I belonged.
I say this to make you feel like epic shit for going off the “woe is me” deep end. We lost a game. Big fucking deal. Win some lose some. You in your selfish downward spiral are forgetting about all the good you did this season. You didn’t disappoint me.
You forced me to join your weird team, make friends, and start living up to my potential. I don’t have parents who can thank you for guiding their kid. So I’ll thank you. Thanks.
Now, get your head out of your ass and apologize to the team for losing your damn mind.
Sincerely,
Morticia
P.S. I found the emergency snack cakes you stashed in your desk drawer and ate them. You’re welcome.
77
Marley
Imade the three-hour-and-thirty-minute drive to Pittsburgh in complete silence. The Pennsylvania Turnpike was a monotonous stretch of rest stops, tunnels, and trucks. I’d survived Monday, using the locker room as my personal fortress of solitude. I’d ducked out the back when Jake had pounded on the door after the final bell rang.
My watch had vibrated as I jumped into my car and sped from the lot.
Jake: You can run, but you can’t hide. We need to talk. Stop being a chickenshit.
But I didn’t have anything to say. I was still sad, still broken, and I felt like an asshole for making an entire team of girls think that they’d disappointed me. I didn’t know how to apologize. How to make it clear that I was the one to blame.
Tuesday, I spent the entire day on my air mattress while my mom and sister shopped for our Thanksgiving meal. I felt like an ass.
By Wednesday morning, I was sick of myself, and the only thing I could think to do was actually go to the job interview.
Outreach was a nonprofit start-up that matched families in need with available social services while also recruiting individuals to make monetary donations.
Just the kind of thing the me from this summer would have been looking for. The current me, though, couldn’t be bothered to get excited about it. All I could think about was Jake looking devastated, the girls getting off the bus crying. An endless loop of disappointment.
I found the office in a cool, renovated warehouse and sat on a couch shaped like a pair of red lips. The walls were painted in bright primary colors. All employees were dressed casually in jeans and hoodies. They were walking around with iPads in one hand and lattes in the other.
No one was even close to my age.
Normally, by this point, my palms would be so sweaty I’d have to wipe them before shaking hands. But I sat here stiffly on overstuffed lips and wished it was all over so I could curl up on my air mattress at home.
