Please, Please, Please (9780698139558) by Vail Rachel

Author:Vail, Rachel
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2014-05-18T16:00:00+00:00

eleven

I handed my permission slip to Ms. Cress in homeroom the next morning.

“Finally!” she said. “But Ms. Masters won the cookie.”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes you win, usually you lose.”

“Oh,” I said. “And I was, is it, I mean, can I still get on the soccer team?”

“I thought ballet interfered.”

“No,” I said. “We just decided it was too much, ballet four times a week. It didn’t leave time for anything else.”

Ms. Cress nodded. “It did seem like a lot.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said. “So I’ll just, take ballet Fridays, because we don’t have soccer Fridays, right?”

“Right,” she said.

I smiled, surprised by how calm I felt. I’d had this weird, foggy, relaxed feeling from the moment I forged my mother’s signature on my permission slip. All through dance class yesterday I felt it, and ironically I danced better than ever—even Fiona complimented me. At dinner, Paul told us about giving his oral report on the four senses—he totally forgot the sense of taste. He was really funny; we all laughed until our eyes were watering. Daddy came in to give me a special kiss later when I was in bed and told me he was glad I was feeling back to normal. He hadn’t kissed me in a while.

“Great!” Ms. Cress said, going to her desk. “So you can start Tuesday.”

I nodded. “Yeah. After the trip.”

“I saved number five, just in case,” she said.

“Really?”

“Well, not too many of the girls would fit into such a small shirt, anyway,” she admitted.

“My lucky number,” I said. “It’s all working out.”

“Where are those forms?” Ms. Cress asked herself, riffling through the mess on her desk. “I know they’re here somewhere. I’m happy you’ll play, CJ. We can always use a player who has your, your . . .” She was searching not just for the forms, I knew, but for an adjective to describe my lousy soccer abilities in a nice way. “Here. With your enthusiasm,” she finally said, holding a packet of forms in the air triumphantly.

“It’s OK,” I said. “I know I stink. I just, I like, I-I-I want to, like to be a part of the team.”

“Great attitude.” She laid the forms on my desk, placed her hand on my shoulder, and bent over to show me. “This one is the schedule, this yellow is the medical form, the pink is the parental release form—try to be quicker with that one?”

“Ha,” I sort of laughed.

“And this blue one, oh! That’s for ordering your soccer jacket. It’s optional, and it’s forty-nine dollars, so talk it over with your parents. ’K?”

“I’m sure they’ll say yes,” I told her. “They’re very supportive of-of-of soccer. Playing. And, jackets. They really want me to be on the team, so . . .”

Shut up, I told myself.

“Good to have you on the team,” she said. “Come to the gym at lunch, if you want to pick up your team jersey.”

“I do,” I told her.

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