Hooked

Some girl? Had Seth heard that right?

She’s already got a spot on the team.

How was that fair?

Coach isn’t even making her try out.

Not even an informal tryout?

And her name is Fred Oday.

Fred? What kind of a girl’s name was that?

My temples began to throb as I replayed the news in my head. None of it made any sense.

And where had I heard the name Fred? Where had I seen her? Surely she hadn’t just dropped out of the freaking sky. She must be at least a junior. And why would Coach Lannon put a girl on an all-boys’ varsity golf team? Was he high? Weren’t there rules against stuff like that? Shouldn’t there be? Our chances of winning the state championship had just crashed.

Still numb, I almost head-butted Zack Fisher on my way to English. I was going through the door as he was busting out.

“You hear?” Zack said to me, predictably. Of course Zack had heard. Thanks to him, probably everyone in the entire school already knew about Seth.

I stared back at him, still a little dazed.

“Well? Have you heard?” He grabbed my shoulder.

I shrugged Zack’s hand off my shoulder. “Yeah. I heard. I sit right next to him in Homeroom. Remember?”

“Can you believe that?” Zack’s head of tight brown curls shook indignantly, his eyes shiny and wide with the news. “And now we’ve got a girl on the team? Are you kidding me?” His voice got higher, louder. Angrier. “Why don’t they just start a girls’ team?” Several freshmen glanced curiously in our direction as they passed us in the hallway.

“I know,” I said, unsure what more to say.

“You know her?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of her.”

Zack chortled. “Well, she better be good. That’s all I got to say.” He said it as if he didn’t think it was even remotely possible. I wanted him to be right.

“Yeah,” I said. Especially since she just got my best friend kicked off the team.

The bell rang, and we both turned for the door. Mrs. Weisz, our English teacher, was already at the podium and shuffling papers. She peered at us over her wire-rimmed bifocals. A quick flicker of her eyelids reminded us about her views on tardiness. But then I realized, too late, that I’d rather be anywhere other than inside her stuffy classroom discussing lame hundred-year-old books that never made any sense. I should have ditched with Seth.

Too late now.

With my backpack slung over my right shoulder and my hands jammed in my front pockets to keep them from punching a hole in the door, I wove my way to my usual spot next to the window. Every seat was taken, and the rows were so tight that there was barely any room to wedge between the desks. When I finally made it to the last row, I passed by a girl seated in the front desk and accidentally knocked over her book with my backpack.

“Sorry,” I murmured, bending over to retrieve it. When I stood up, my eyes swept over her desk and then landed on her face. It was the same girl who’d walked out of Coach Lannon’s office.

For a moment, we locked gazes, and I began to piece it together. But then before I blinked, the girl lowered her eyes and began fidgeting with a strand of her hair. It twirled around her finger like a shiny black ribbon as she stared down at a blank page in her notebook. Her eyes hid under feathery eyelashes.

And then, for some odd reason, I squinted at the cover of her book in my hand: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In the right corner, written in perfect cursive letters in black ink, I saw another name: Fred Oday.

My jaw dropped. Fred Oday? That Fred Oday?

My temples started to pound again. My eyes traveled back down to the girl’s forehead. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes stayed lowered. She was sure as shit avoiding me.

You’re Fred Oday? I wanted to shout.

I almost choked out my question until Mrs. Weisz said, “Mr. Berenger? Something wrong?”

I didn’t answer her. My gaze refused to unlock from the top of the girl’s head.

“Will you take your seat, Mr. Berenger?” Mrs. Weisz snapped.

I nodded numbly. And then I remembered.

All of the details came flooding back as clearly as the writing on her book. Everything.

She was the girl who’d dropped cake right into my crotch at Mom’s birthday dinner, almost as if she’d done it on purpose. She was the girl who’d passed Seth and me outside Coach Lannon’s office. And she was also the girl who’d robbed my best friend of his spot on the golf team.

I dropped the book onto Fred’s desk. It landed with a splat.

Then I stormed down the row and dropped into the last empty seat.

Chapter 5

Fred

I WANTED TO hide in Coach Lannon’s office for the rest of the day.

The whispers and hushed voices started in earnest sometime after Homeroom on my way to English, even worse than when Dad had dropped me off at the curb. When I tilted my head and struggled to eavesdrop on hallway conversations between classes, voices faded. It was like trying to catch words in the wind.

But then in first-period English, for the very first time, he looked at me: Ryan Berenger. The pretentious, moody guy who couldn’t be bothered to have dinner with his family, the one who always had his arm around the bleached-blonde girl from the pom squad who was always pictured in the school newspaper on top of parade floats and at dances that I wouldn’t dream of attending. Usually. Anyway, they always sat together all cozylike at lunch. Ryan let Blonde Girl thread her thin, pale fingers through his hair like she owned him.

They deserved each other.

But I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year, and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.

I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the summer, too. He and his short, stocky blond friend were always speeding by the driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they didn’t have to wait till after five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play whenever he wanted.

And now we were teammates. As Trevor would say, that was irony.

That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class and gripped my book like he wanted to shred it to pieces. What else would make him so angry? Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too—or he was still pissed that I’d ruined his pants with a piece of mushy birthday cake.

“Don’t fear the journey,” I murmured as the day’s last bell rang. At my locker, I closed my eyes and tried desperately to picture the falcon with the gold-and-brown feathers perched at the top of our mesquite tree at home. For a moment, my shoulders lightened, and I was able to drown out the negative thoughts invading my head. After a few calming breaths, my eyes opened slowly. My vision cleared. “Don’t fear the journey,” I exhaled one final time.

A girl with red spiky hair and a silver nose stud standing at the locker next to mine slammed her army-green locker shut.

I jumped when it closed and then turned to her.

The girl rolled her eyes like I was crazy.

She might be right.

* * *

“Okay, men—” Coach Lannon said but then stopped himself. He turned sideways, his thick arms folded across his chest. He cast an apologetic smile at me. “And lady,” he added, as if he was doing me the world’s biggest favor.

I groaned inwardly.

It’d be more comfortable standing beneath a spotlight surrounded by a marching band.

Leaning against my golf bag like it was a lifeboat, I stood with my seven teammates on the largest of the four grassy fields that surrounded Lone Butte High School. The open field was as large as a football field. My teammates stood beside me but not too close, each straddling their own golf bags that looked newer than mine by at least three decades. Coach Lannon stood across from us in the middle of our half-moon lineup, eager to start barking out orders by the way he kept fingering his whistle.

After spending several excruciatingly long seconds introducing me to the team, he mercifully reverted into his coach persona, the one I’d gotten to know at the country club, long enough for me to resume breathing again. Small miracle: at least he introduced me as Fred Oday and not Fredricka. That would have been beyond humiliating.

No one said hello, not that I expected or needed pleasantries. I simply wanted to play golf and lots of it. I hadn’t joined the team to make friends. And their sideways glances when they thought I wasn’t paying attention suggested that building friendships wouldn’t be an option.

“We got a best-ball tournament with Hamilton High on Thursday, so we got our work cut out for us this week. I hope you boys have been practicing over the summer?” Coach Lannon’s eyes scanned the boys standing to my right. A few fidgeted in place, especially the one with the brown curls named Zack. He bounced around like he had an army of red ants crawling up his leg. Coach Lannon didn’t bother staring me down. He knew exactly where I’d spent most of the summer, and my eyes begged for his silence. Mentioning it would only elevate my status to something below Teacher’s Pet.

“Bus will leave here at two o’clock,” he continued, tapping his clipboard.

My chest caved forward, grateful. The coach must have sensed my unease.

“You’re all excused from your last class,” he continued. “I’ve already cleared it with your teachers. Bus will be back here by seven.”

A few happy gasps filled the air at the thought of missing a couple hours of school.

“But be on the bus no later than two. Understood?” Coach Lannon’s eyes widened, daring disobedience. “Any questions so far?” He said it in a way that indicated he didn’t expect any. But someone got his brave on.

“What about Fred, Coach? Does she get to tee off from the women’s tees at the tournament?”

A few of the guys snickered as the hairs prickled on the back of my neck.

Women’s tees?

Carefully, I turned sideways till my eyes landed on Ryan Berenger. His eyes shifted back to the coach when I glared at him.

“Well, Ryan,” Coach Lannon said, scratching the side of his head, as if he hadn’t fully thought about it, and my jaw dropped. Certainly he’d spent at least one minute of his time pondering this. There was only one answer.

“No!” I blurted.

All seven of the boys, including Coach Lannon, turned to gape at me. Clearly no one had ever answered for the coach before. “I won’t hit from the women’s tees. I can hit from the men’s tees. I do it all the time.” My teeth ground together as my hands shook.

One of Coach Lannon’s blond eyebrows rose with something resembling admiration as he slowly scanned the boys’ faces, reading their reactions. Collectively, their lips pressed together. A few fidgeted with their bag tags, but no one uttered another word.

Then the coach smiled. “Well, I guess you heard her, men. And don’t underestimate her,” he added. “I’ll wager she’s got a straighter shot than anyone else on this team.”

I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any easier.

The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.

“Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her hit.” He said it like a challenge.

“Yeah,” piped in another low voice.

“Show us,” taunted a third boy.

My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support. It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as tall as I was. My stomach churned, and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.

“Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.

Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like the newer ones.

As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to throb.

Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half hour.

I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.

And muffed it.

Crap!

The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.

Totally embarrassing.

Someone chuckled.

“Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed, the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.

My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.

I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any type of bird—a crow, grackle, hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.

And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over left, approached the golf ball, bent my knees, lowered my forehead and smacked that friggin’ white ball high into the sky and clear across the field. It pierced deep into the sky like a gunshot.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Lannon roared, walking toward me with quick steps, his eyes still tracking the ball. He even clapped a couple of times.

I ignored him. I ignored everybody. I didn’t need their praise. Instead, I waited for the ball to drop from the sky, still holding on to my follow-through with the club arched over my right shoulder. Picture-perfect form.

“I don’t think you’ll find that ball! That one’s a goner!” Coach Lannon grinned.

“Shit,” someone muttered. “Where’d it go?”

“Dunno,” said another disappointed voice.

I didn’t turn to Coach Lannon and wait for any more of his compliments. Truth is, I hated compliments. I didn’t boast either or flash my teammates an I-told-you-so smirk. Instead, I reached down for another ball with a trembling hand and teed up my next shot. Then another.

And another.

It was like my arms were on fire.

“The rest of you goofballs, quit your gawking and start swinging! Let me see what you got! We got a tournament in three days!”

I swung at another ball. Harder. The next one sailed farther than the last.

Chapter 6

Ryan

DECENT.

That’s what I thought when I watched Fred’s swing. Although she’d completely muffed her first tee shot, her form was tight: knees bent, chin lowered, hands gripping the club on the sweet spot. Her club swept back and then crushed against the ball as if swinging a club was the easiest thing in the world. Some golfers had it and others didn’t. Fred Oday definitely had it.

I’d be lying if I said that I hoped she was good, because I wanted Fred to fail. I wanted an epic fail right in front of the coach, in front of everybody. And I wanted it bad.

“Jeez, the Fred freak sure can crank it,” Henry Graser said. He swung next to me and sounded as disappointed as I probably looked.

“Yeah,” I growled underneath my breath as I fiddled with a new box of tees stuffed in the front pocket of my golf bag.

“Well, we’ll see.” Henry stopped to lean against his Ping nine-iron. He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his pale forehead. “Coach always says practice is one thing, tournaments are another. Maybe she’ll choke on Thursday.” He tapped his iron against the heel of his golf shoe, releasing a clump of dirt.

Tournaments. My shoulders lightened. The coach was right. Let’s see how she does on Thursday. That ought to set everything straight again. Maybe then Coach will realize he made a big mistake. Maybe there was a chance Seth could rejoin the team....

“And just because you can crank a ball doesn’t mean you can putt. Or get yourself out of a sand trap,” Henry added, trying to convince us both that Fred’s golf skills were a fluke. He bent over to balance another ball on his tee.

Three stations away from us, Fred pulled out a seven-iron from her golf bag and took a practice swing with her eyes closed. A light wind lifted black wispy hairs around her face. She paused to twirl the loose strands behind her ears when they drifted too close to her eyes.

I pretended not to notice that Fred was more than just a little pretty.

Hold up. What am I saying?!

I lowered my head over my ball and pulled my chin into my chest. I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath. Fred was starting to psyche me out, and I could kick my own ass for even thinking it.

Sucking in a gulp of warm air, I pulled back my driver and cracked the ball clear across the field, but the ball hooked left almost immediately. It didn’t sail straight like Fred’s. Not even close. Waiting for it to land, I whacked my club against the ground.

In my periphery, I caught Fred watching me, studying me. I swore under my breath. If only she’d seen my last shot. That one had been perfect.

What was wrong with me? Why should I care, and most of all, why would I care what she thought? I tapped the side of my head with my club.

“Not bad, Berenger. Not bad!” Coach Lannon yelled from the other end of the field. “Except you hooked it.”

Gee, thanks, Coach. Tell me something I don’t know.

“And check out that bag.” Henry continued his ongoing commentary, lowering his voice. He chuckled. “Where’d she find that thing?”

I tried to ignore Henry but failed miserably. “Shut up, Graser,” I snapped. “You’re messing with my concentration.”

Henry’s neck pulled back, palms lifted. “My bad, Tiger Woods. Just having some fun.”

I shook my head and then tried to concentrate on the next practice ball.

“It must be real busted, losing the team’s top spot to a girl,” Henry added.

“Yeah, real busted,” I said, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

It was all I could do not to wipe off Henry’s grin with the end of my club. He was lucky his father was principal of the school, or I would have seriously considered it.

Chapter 7

Fred

I SAT ON the curb next to the gym after practice, pretending to be engrossed in The Great Gatsby perched on my knees as I waited for Dad. Too bad F. Scott Fitzgerald never knew what it was like to be the lone girl on an all-boys’ golf team.

My backpack was propped against the front of my bare legs. The sun began to set over the Estrella Mountains, painting orange-yellow streaks across the sky. The campus was almost peaceful.

Almost.

All of my new teammates raced out of the school parking lot like it was the last day before summer vacation. They peeled across the pavement in SUVs, convertibles, sedans, a pickup—one even drove a Hummer—each one newer and shinier than the next.

No one offered me a ride, not that I expected one, especially when they’d behaved like I had some kind of incurable skin disease. No matter. I’d be mortified if any of them drove me all the way home. Better to let them believe I lived in a tepee with no running water or television. That was probably what they thought. That was probably what they’d all like to think.

Ryan Berenger was the last one to leave. He made a show of racing through the parking lot in a shiny silver Jeep Cherokee. His tires never stopped screeching.

Someone sat in his passenger seat, but I couldn’t see who it was. I kept my head lowered toward my book and watched Ryan through the safety of my eyelashes. The radio blared through his open windows, and yet he scowled through the windshield.

What a waste. Why would someone with his own car need to scowl? And why was he always staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking? He’d kept glancing over at me during practice. It was...unsettling.

After Ryan drove away, I exhaled and closed my book.

“Hey, Fred.”

I turned, startled. It was Sam. “What are you doing here?”

Sam walked toward me, his backpack threaded over his shoulder. “Stayed late to work in the lab on a project. Mind if I catch a ride home with you?”

I smiled at him. “’Course not.”

And that’s when Dad drove through the front entrance. I heard the familiar chug of the van’s engine a block away. Perfect timing.

I looked at him through his open window and smiled tiredly. Gratefully. It was so nice to see Dad’s face.

“How’s my daughter?” he said as he pulled the van alongside the curb.

“Fine, Dad,” I said with a tinge of forced brightness.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Mr. Oday.” Sam grabbed my backpack from the sidewalk. This time he didn’t ask, and I was too tired to protest.

Sam followed me as I opened the rear door. With one hand, he tossed my pack into the back of the van. I placed a purple Lone Butte High School golf shirt from Coach Lannon on top of it. It was a men’s large, but it had been the only shirt left. I was supposed to wear it to all the tournaments. I’d have to hem the sleeves a couple inches before Thursday’s tournament. Otherwise the shirt would hang past my elbows.

Dad’s brow continued to furrow as he watched me over the front seat. “Really?” he said. His tone was doubtful. “Everything’s really fine?”

I slammed the door, because that was the only way it closed. Then I climbed into the passenger seat, anxious for once to get home. Sam slipped into the seat behind mine. “Really,” I said, still a bit forced.

“How was practice?”

“Fine.”

He chortled. “That’s it? That’s all you got for me? Fine?”

I nodded and looked out the passenger window as he pressed the accelerator and proceeded to the exit.

“How’d you do?”

“I did okay.”

“Just okay?” His eyes widened. “Look, are you going to tell me how practice went or not? I’ve been worried all day.”

I dragged my tongue across my lips, then turned to him and smirked. “It was about what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

I sank lower in my seat as we approached the stoplight, hiding the bottom half of my face below the dashboard. Ryan Berenger’s silver Jeep sat at the red light only two cars ahead of us.

Dang it!

I swallowed again, not taking my gaze off the back of his vehicle. There was a gold Ahwatukee Golf Club Member sticker on his rear window.