No way.

I consider hiding under the table and pretending I don't exist until she leaves, but before I can move at all, she meets my gaze. Her eyes immediately widen as she realizes that I'm the girl she's supposed to be meeting. The waitress grabs two menus and begins to lead her towards me, and she rigidly follows her.

"Here you guys go," says the waitress, putting the menus and two bundles of silverware on the table.

The girl with the blue eyes awkwardly slides into the seat across from me. Her dirty blonde hair covers her bare shoulders, and her lips are coated in gloss, making them shine. Her shirt has been cropped at the point where her ribs give way to her stomach, and I look back at the waitress instead of allowing my gaze to fall any lower.

"Can I start you guys off with some drinks?"

"Water," I say.

"Pink lemonade," says the girl with blue eyes.

Once the waitress has left, the girl looks straight at me, her lazy eyes indicating that she's as unimpressed as she was when we met at the soccer complex.

"So you're Cindy's kid?

I nod, forcing myself to meet her judgmental gaze. "Yeah."

"My mom told me you just moved here from New Jersey."

"Yeah."

"She also said you didn't have any friends."

"I have friends," I say quickly. "They're just . . . "

"Thousands of miles away?"

The waitress comes and sets our drinks down on the table, and the girl takes a long sip of her pink lemonade before speaking again.

"I'm Alex."

I nod. "Tobin."

"Tobin?" She draws her eyebrows together. "What kind of name is that?"

"It was my grandmother's," I say. "Her last name."

She looks down. "Shit. Sorry."

"It was before I was born," I say, wondering how the conversation managed to end up here.

"Is the rest of your family back in New Jersey?"

I nod. "Yeah. Just me and my mom out here."

"Do you like it?"

I shrug. "It's alright, I guess."

Would be better if I could actually practice.

The waitress comes back and pulls a notepad out of her apron to take our orders. Alex orders a veggie burger, while I order a turkey sandwich. I'm not particularly hungry, but I guess I could just take home whatever I don't finish and eat it later.

"Are you a vegetarian?" I ask.

"Vegan," she says. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna try to convert you or anything."

"I wasn't thinking that," I say quietly, and then lean forward to take a sip of my drink.

Except I somehow miscalculate where the straw is and end up poking myself in the eye with it. I automatically lean back, holding my hand over half of my face and cursing under my breath.

"Shit."

"Are you okay?" she says, and I think I hear the slightest hint of genuine concern in her voice.

"Yeah," I say, trying to sound casual. I look down at the table and try to open my eye, only for a stinging feeling to cause me to blink rapidly before closing it again completely. "I'm great."

"Here, let me see."

"No, it's really fine - "

Suddenly, she has her hands on my cheeks and is tilting my face upwards to look at here. The table is large enough that she has to lean over it to reach me. Her crop top rides up a bit, and I look over her shoulder to avoid staring at her stomach. The eye that got poked with the straw is reluctant to remain open.

"It doesn't look like it got scratched or anything," she says. "Here, look at me."

I really don't want to, but I don't see how I can really tell her no when I'm already in such a compromising position. I meet her large blue eyes, finally able to keep the eye that got poked slightly open.

"It's fine," she says, then pushes my face away from her. "You're dramatic."

I rub at my eye, embarrassed but firm in the belief that my reaction was completely warranted.

"So you're pretty good at soccer."

"I'm alright," I say.

"Come on," she says, rolling her eyes. "You know you're pretty good. You almost beat me the other day . . . and that's not easy to do."

I shrug. "I've been playing since I could walk. Anybody would be pretty good after playing for so long."

"You're being humble." She takes a sip of her pink lemonade without breaking eye contact with me. "It's annoying."

"I'm not being - "

"You should try out for the team," she says. "At Diamond Bar. You're going there, right?"

"Yeah."

"We need a forward."

"Aren't you guys one of the top teams in the state? I'm sure there's already a bunch of girls waiting in the wings to fill that position."

"There's a few," she admits, "but they're not as good as you."

"I doubt that."

I don't mean to sound so pessimistic. I know I'm not a bad player, but based on everything that I've read, the girls who play for Diamond Bar are truly some of the best high school athletes in the country. I stood out as a good player back at Ridge, but that doesn't really count for much, considering Diamond Bar would crush Ridge if the two teams were to ever face each other. I love my old team, but to pretend that they would have a chance would be naïve of me.

The waitress comes back with our food, and we eat in silence. Alex finishes everything on her plate, but I struggle to find my appetite and have to ask for a box so I can take half of my sandwich home.

"So are you gonna try out for the team or what?"

"I'll try out, but I'm not getting my hopes up about playing forward. I don't want to take that spot away from someone whose been waiting years for it."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you'll have a change of heart when Foudy actually gives you the spot."

She takes a loud sip of her pink lemonade before standing up. She runs her fingers through her hair, and her crop top rides up when she raises her arms. I quickly look down and pretend to brush some crumbs off the table.

"I'll tell my mom that this went well," she says, already turning away from me. "But don't think we're all buddy-buddy now. I haven't forgotten about that tackle."

I watch her as she walks away, wondering how she manages to speak with such confidence, and why I lack the ability to do the same. The bells hanging above the door chime as she leaves the restaurant.

The waitress suddenly appears and slides a black book across the table. "Here's the check."

Of course she would leave me to pick up the check, I think as I reach into my pocket. It's a good thing I brought enough money to pay for us.

***

Mom asks me how the playdate went as soon I climb into the car.

"It was good," I say as I settle into the passenger seat.

"Oh, that's good. That's really good."

She reaches over to give my thigh a squeeze as she says this, and I immediately feel bad about lying to her. She thinks I've made a friend, when all I've really done is prove to myself that I'm horrible at making friends.

"You're father called the house about twenty minutes ago. You should call him back when you get the chance."

I rest my chin on my hand and stare out the window. Every house that we pass looks the same to me; they all have multiple stories, a vibrant green lawn, shiny cars parked in the driveway. The entire neighborhood looks like it was constructed by a public relations specialist rather than an architect.

"He said he's tried calling your cell. That you never answer when he does."

There is a woman jogging with her golden retriever. The dog could easily sprint ahead of her, but the leash around their neck forces them to adopt a slower and less natural gait.

"Tobin? Are you listening?"

"Yeah," I respond. "I'm listening."

"Well, are you gonna call him back? He's at least trying to reach out to you, sweetie; I know things got a little out of hand the last time you two talked, but maybe he just wants the chance to apologize."

"He doesn't want to talk to me," I say, looking down at my lap. "I freak him out."

"That's not true," she says.

"It is true," I say. "It's the whole reason you left him in the first place."

"Now that is not true. Your father and I had a lot of problems, Tobin, problems that had nothing to do with you."

I shake my head. I know she's lying, but I don't feel like arguing with her right now. If she wants to pretend like her and Dad splitting up wasn't my fault, then I guess I'll just have to let her.

"I'll call him when we get home."

And I do. I bring a chair into the closet in my room and sit in there with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to his ringer and dreading the moment when he picks up. I leave the light off so I don't have to see my own face staring back at me whenever I glance at the mirror hanging on the back of the door.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Tobin! I've been trying to call you all week."

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. I've been busy getting settled in."

"No, it's alright," he says, and I can tell that he means it. "I just wanted to call and check up on you. I heard that you're starting school on Monday."

"Yeah."

"Are you excited?"

"No."

He chuckles. "Why not? It's a fresh start; you don't get too many of those in life."

I hate how much he sounds like Mom.

"Guess I'm just nervous I'll end up having a swirlie for lunch."

He actually laughs this time, and it's a rich and hearty sound. "Nobody is going to be giving my daughter a swirlie. I'll have to make a call to the school if that happens."

"I don't think they'll be too scared, Dad. I mean, Diamond Bar is pretty far from your area of jurisdiction."

"Oh, those administrators will be terrified. I'll have them trembling in their boots."

I raise my hand to my face. "Nobody says trembling in their boots anymore, Dad."

"What do you mean? I hear people say it all the time down at the station."

"Yeah, because you work with a bunch of boomers."

He scoffs as though he's offended. "I'll have you know there are plenty of youngsters joining the force these days. I actually just got appointed a trainee the other day that's only twenty years old."

"The Force? You make it sound like you guys are an army in Star Wars or something."

He laughs again. "No, unfortunately. Our jobs are much more boring."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I remain silent.

"Hey," he says suddenly. "I, uh . . . well, I wanted to say I'm sorry. For what I said when I was helping you clean out your room over here."

My throat clenches up. I don't want to think about what he said to me. I don't want to think about what he thinks of me.

"I . . . I know it really hurt you."

I swallow. It did really hurt me, though I would never admit that to him.

"You don't have to forgive me. I just, uh, want you to know that."

"Okay," I say, my voice tight. At this point, I just want him to stop talking.

"Okay," he says quietly. "I have to get back to work, but maybe I can call sometime next week? And you can tell me about how your first day went."

"Sure."

"Okay. Love you, baby."

"Love you."

I hang up and cradle the phone against my chest as I wait for my heart rate to return to normal. The only thing I can hear is my own heavy breathing as I rock back and forth in the darkness of the closet, wishing I had never called him back in the first place.

***

I wear running shorts and an oversized Avengers t-shirt to school on Monday. Mom pretends that she loves the look - she even tells me its cute when I walk into the kitchen and start making myself a bowl of cereal - but I see the way she glances at me as I sit at the dining table and shovel spoonfuls of Frosted Flakes into my mouth. She is studying me like a painting at an art museum; she is trying to pick apart each element in order to understand the whole.

The kids at school, on the other hand, seem like they couldn't care less about what I'm wearing and what it says about me. When I walk into my first period class, nobody so much as glances my way; they're all too busy talking to their friends or staring at their phones. I take a seat in the back of the class and read all the words carved into the desk.

Most of them are not very nice.

The teacher spends the whole period talking about himself; he tells us where he grew up and where he went to college and how long he's been teaching at Diamond Bar - the whole spiel. He seems like a nice guy, but he's going to need to be a miracle worker to teach me calculus. Just looking at the posters on the walls for too long gives me a headache.

I manage to get through my next two classes - English and AP Art History - without interacting with anyone. I just sit in the back of the class and pretend to focus on the PowerPoint the teacher put together until the bell rings. It's not that I'm opposed to interacting with people; I would just rather avoid the anxiety that comes with doing so.

When I walk into my physics class, I see Alex sitting in the back, laughing at something the guy next to her said. She looks my way and catches my eye, but when I raise my hand and wave to her, she turns back towards her friend as though she didn't see me.

I decide to sit in the front.

Contrary to what I expect, lunch ends up being my favorite part of the school day. I sit alone at a bench in the middle of the quad, beneath a sycamore tree, and eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I packed for myself last night. I watch some tall and muscular boys toss a football back and forth, their movements more theatrical than technical and measured. They see themselves as gladiators in the coliseum and the girls in the benches surrounding the quad as their audience.

It's almost amusing, considering no girls seems to be paying attention to them except for me, and I doubt I'm the kind of their girl they want attention from.

My next class is wood shop. Only a few seconds after I sit down, a boy's voice erupts from the speaker next to the clock and fills the room.

"Welcome back, brahmas. Hope you had a great summer and are ready to jump headfirst into the new school year. Remember to submit schedule change requests to your counselor by Friday. Be aware that any requests related to instructor preference will be denied. Tickets for our first football game will go on sale next week, so make sure you buy one and show up to cheer on our football team in purple and gold. The first day of soccer tryouts will be this Thursday after school. Speak to Coach Foudy in B-14 if you have any questions."

I automatically sit up straighter when I hear him mention soccer. I guess I'll have to clear my schedule for Thursday afternoon - not that it was crowded to begin with.

We don't spend the period making anything; the instructor just goes over the rules and safety measures that we'll need to be aware of for the rest of the year. He gives us a couple of handouts to study tonight, as there will be a quiz on them tomorrow.

My last period is study hall. I put my headphones in to deter others from talking to me and work on my calculus homework. I manage to get halfway through it before someone taps my shoulder with a pencil, causing me to jump and pull my headphones around my neck.

"I'm sorry," says a man with light wrinkles and a large nose. He smiles lightly and adds, "I didn't mean to scare you."

He has an accent, but it's not thick enough to prevent me from understanding him. He must be from some Eastern European country, though I'm not sure which one.

"The bell rang a few minutes ago. You didn't hear it because of the big mittens on your ears."

"Oh," I say, embarrassed. I quickly stand up and begin to shove my belongings into my backpack. "Sorry. I'll leave right now."

"It's okay," he says, shaking his head, and he holds his hand up to stop me from rushing out of the room. "Do you usually wear the headphones?"

"Uh, not really. Guess I just, uh, didn't feel like talking to anyone today."

"I don't feel like talking to anyone on most days. I think I need to buy myself a pair."

We both laugh after he says this - light, casual laughing, but genuine laughing nonetheless - and I think it's the first time I've laughed in weeks.

He begins to walk back to his desk at the front of the classroom. "I'll see you tomorrow, Tobin."

"Yeah," I say, walking backwards towards the exit. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. . . . " I trail off when I see his name plate on his desk.

"Andonovski," he says. "Mr. Andonovski."

"Mr. Andonovski," I repeat. "Bye."

I turn into the hallway, content with having pulled off a successful social interaction with someone, albeit someone over twice my age who's obligated to be nice to me. I head to the front of the school, where my mom said she would pick me up, and stand on the curb as I wait for her to arrive.

There's a group of four boys standing next to me, huddled around a phone. One of them has short brown hair and a square jaw, and I recognize him as the boy who was sitting next to Alex in physics earlier.

"Fuck . . . you were deep in there."

"Yeah," says the boy who was sitting next to Alex in physics. "It was tight as hell, man. Could barely fucking move."

"Looks like you were moving just fine," says a different boy. "She was wet enough."

"I made sure she was."

Suddenly, someone honks their horn, and I see my mom's car across the street when I look away from the group of boys. She rolls down her window and holds up an In-N-Out bag.

"Look! Decided to pick some up again!"

***

"So how was your first day?"

I shrug and swallow a bite of my burger. "Good."

"Did you see Alex at all?" she asks, reaching across the table to grab a napkin.

"Uh, yeah. She's in my physics class."

"Oh, that's great, honey! Maybe you two can study together sometime. Physics isn't exactly a piece of cake, if you know what I'm saying."

I nod. "Yeah. I know, Mom."

"Aren't these fries delicious?" she asks, desperate to maintain a conversation with me. "I mean, I didn't think I would be a fan of something that's 'animal style', but these are great!"

I nod and pick at my own fries. "Yeah. They're pretty good."

She spends a few moments staring at her food before trying a different approach. "Did you hear anything about soccer tryouts?"

The mere mention of soccer makes me perk up. "Uh, I did, actually. They start Thursday, after school."

A crease forms on her forehead. "Shoot. Thursday?"

I nod. "Yeah. Thursday."

"I don't think I can pick you up afterwards, honey," she says, grimacing. "I'm working four to eleven on Thursday."

"That's okay," I say. "I can just walk home."

"You are not walking home; it starts getting dark at around five, and I do not want you walking home in the dark."

"It's not a big deal, Mom. I'll throw on a hoodie and ride my skateboard home; anybody who passes by me will think I'm a boy and keep going."

"Young boys can get kidnapped too, Tobin." She shakes her head and puts her hands up. "That's beside the point. You aren't walking home on Thursday."

"Mom, I can't miss the first day of tryouts," I say, setting my burger down. "There's no way I'll make the team if I do."

"I didn't say you couldn't go," she says. "I'll ask Pamela if she can pick you up."

"Pamela? Alex's mom?"

She nods. "I'm sure she'll say yes. I mean, I don't see why she wouldn't; Alex said she really enjoyed having lunch with you the other day."

"Mom, it's fine, really. I can walk home. I'll bring my pepper spray, just to be safe."

"Nope. Absolutely not."

"Mom - " I protest.

She stands up, ignoring me. "I'll text Pamela tonight and let you know what she says in the morning."

"But you don't - "

"Do you want dessert?" she asks, pulling a tub of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. "I bought this at Stater Brothers earlier, just for you."

She looks at me hopefully, and I know I can't shoot her down. I sigh and lean back in my chair, accepting defeat for what must be the millionth time.

"Yeah. I'll take some."