I climb to my feet, grabbing my stick off the ground and wipe the water off my face. Without a word, I head off the field.
Heading past the bleachers, I pull out my key ring again, unlocking the women’s locker room door. Staying late and coming in on weekends and vacations to sew costumes and build sets has its perks.
I stalk through the room, open another door, and step into the school hallway, my shoes squeaking against the terracotta tile. I pass the courtyard, rain hitting the palms and flower beds and splashing off the stone benches. I veer left toward the theater and just then, I hear the locker room door swing open again, down the hall right behind me.
Jesus Christ. She hasn’t had enough, I guess.
Diving into the theater, I climb up on the stage and head behind the curtain, down to the dressing rooms. I pull open the wardrobe in the hallway, seeing discontinued sets of school sweats and T-shirts sitting folded on the shelves. The theater director keeps the never-been-used, out-of-date overstock here for rehearsals when someone gets covered in fake blood, rain, or whatever else the production calls for.
Clay’s footfalls hit the steps, and I grab my sizes and turn, leaving the cabinet open as I brush past her.
“What’s the key for?” she asks.
I head back up to the stage, ignoring her, and pull off my shorts and tank top. Clothes drop to the table next to me, and I hear her start to strip her wet stuff.
“You wouldn’t have shown me it if it wasn’t important,” she continues.
“Your dress is ready,” I say, ignoring her question. “Unless you want me to fuck it up in all the ways your mother will hate. But it’ll cost you.”
She arches an eyebrow, tossing her wet leggings.
Will I really redesign her dress? If she pays, sure. I kind of like the idea of her wearing something I made, because she wouldn’t if she didn’t like it. Plus, she’ll remember me every time she sees pictures of herself in it. For the next fifty years.
“What was that key?” she asks again, pulling on some dark gray sweats, matching mine. Marymount runs down the left leg in big yellow letters.
I don’t answer her.
I pick up my sweats and lift my leg to put them on, but she lashes out and pushes me. I chuckle, stumbling back and drop the pants.
Darting out my hands, I shove her back. She stumbles but rights herself, squaring her shoulders.
I swipe my pants off the ground, not backing down. Clay doesn’t lay her hands on me unless we’re on the field. She might use the opportunity from time to time to be rough at practice, and the fact that she’s upped her game off the field means she’s desperate to get under my skin.
Because time is running out.
“What is that key for?” she demands again.
I shake out the pants again, dusting off any dirt from the floor. “It’s to a party.”
“When?”
“It’s kind of a pop-up.” My eyes go to the ceiling, trying to act casual.
“And you need a key to get in?”
“I guess so.”
She snatches the sweats out of my hands, approaching me in her pants and sports bra. “And who will be at this party? Anyone I know?”
I laugh under my breath. What would she do if I told her right now? She’d believe it. Clay isn’t stupid.
I narrow my eyes. I don’t want to tell her yet, though.
“Megan Martelle?” she asks, inching in. “Is that who you’re partying with?”
She’s especially obsessed with our coach’s assistant. Why?
When I say nothing, she backs away, a gleam in her eyes as she holds mine and digs in her duffel bag. Pulling out her phone, she starts tapping away. “Olivia Jaeger has a key to earn her A,” she recites as she types. “To Martelle’s apartment, so Teach can tongue her cunt all day…”
I take a step toward her. My enjoyment is gone.
She looks up, cocking her head. “That’s only a hundred characters,” she muses. “Still so much space.”
A tweet has two-hundred-eighty. I tense. She’s not going to tweet that. She wouldn’t.
“What rhymes with strap-on?” she inquires, an innocent pinch between her brows.
I lunge for the phone, ready to show her exactly how well she’d fare on my side of the tracks.
“Just because I don’t fucking punch you doesn’t mean I wasn’t taught how,” I growl. “Knock it off.”
But she slips back, holding her phone. “Drop your bra,” she tells me instead.
I lift my chin. What the hell is wrong with her?
“Drop your bra!” she bellows.
I startle, wincing. “Drop your phone.”
I’ll drop my bra for her, but no pictures.
She sets it down but grabs a Sharpie off the table, instead. Walking slowly, she stops in front of me, and I keep my eyes locked on hers as I reach behind me, unhook my black sports bra, and let it fall to the floor.