The Goal
Page 19
When I reach the door, Professor Fromm calls my name again. “And Sabrina, allow me to give you a tip. Spend a little of your loan money on a new wardrobe. It will help you feel at home here, and the playing field won’t seem so uneven. You dress for the job you want, not the one you have.”
I nod, hoping that my cheeks aren’t completely red. And here I thought the Humiliate Sabrina hour was over.
On the walk across the campus, everything looks a little duller. This time I notice that the large patches of lawn are really mostly brown and that the trees are naked without the leaves. The students have an unrelentingly sameness to them—rich and privileged.
When I get home, I toss the books on my dresser and lie down on the bed. There’s a corner near my window where the plaster is cracked and yellowing. Water has been seeping in for as long as I can remember, but after bringing it up to Nana once and getting a blank stare in return, I haven’t mentioned it again.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. There are cracks in the plaster up there too, along with brownish stains that I’ve always wondered about. Maybe there’s a leak in the roof?
A rush of shame washes over me, but I’m not sure what I’m feeling ashamed about. My ugly, rundown home? My cheap clothes? Myself in general?
Pity yourself later. It’s time to pay the bills.
God. The last thing I want to do right now is leave one place of shame and go to another one, but I don’t have much of a choice. My shift at Boots & Chutes starts in an hour.
I force myself to my feet and grab the booty shorts and bra that serve as my uniform. I’m only going to have to do this for ten more months, I remind myself as I shimmy into my outfit and then apply my makeup. I slip on my six-inch platform stripper shoes, throw on my tattered wool coat and head for the strip club. Which, sadly, is the one place where I really do fit in.
I’m trashy. I live with trashy people. I belong in a trashy place.
The question is, will I ever be able to rub off the stench of my past to belong at Harvard? I thought I could.
But tonight, I honestly don’t know.
8
Tucker
“We suck,” Hollis gripes.
“We’re not great,” I acknowledge.
Today’s practice was another disaster, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow’s game against Yale. I was hoping the road trip to Boston would distract us from how badly we’re playing, but we’ve been sitting in this bar for almost an hour, and so far all we’ve talked about is hockey. The Bruins game flashing on multiple screens all around us isn’t helping matters—watching a good team play good hockey is just the icing on the shit cake.
I peer at my empty beer bottle and then wave it in the air to signal the waitress. I’m going to need about five more of these if I want to snap out of this sour mood.
Hollis is still grumbling beside me. “If we don’t start playing some defense, we can kiss our chances at another Frozen Four goodbye.”
“It’s a long season. Let’s not throw in the towel yet,” Fitzy says from across the booth. He’s sipping on a Coke because he’s our DD tonight.
“Are you guys going to talk hockey all night?” Hollis’ brother, Brody, complains. He’s twenty-five, but looks way younger with his clean-shaven face and backwards Red Sox cap.
“What else are we gonna talk about? This place is a sausage fest.” Hollis tosses a napkin at his brother.
He’s not wrong. There are only two women in this bar. They’re around our age, hot as fuck, and they also happen to be making out with each other in a corner booth. Ninety-five percent of the men here—myself included—have already snuck glances at the lip-locked chicks. The other five percent are busy lip-locking each other.
“Fine, you losers.” Brody heaves out an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t like this place? Let’s go.”
“Where?” his little brother asks.
“Where there’s girls.”
“Done and done.”
Three minutes later, we’re climbing into Fitzy’s car and following Brody’s Audi across town.
“Nice wheels,” I remark, gesturing to the shiny silver car ahead of us.
“He leases it,” Hollis informs me. “He likes to act like a big shot, but he’s really not.”
“Gee,” Fitzy drawls from the driver’s seat. “Sound like anyone you know?”
That gets him a middle finger from our teammate. “Dude. I’m more of a big shot than your pansy ass. You didn’t even get laid on your birthday this week.”
“I wasn’t looking to get laid. Trust me, if I was, you wouldn’t have seen me at all that night.”
“We barely saw you, anyway! You went home early to play video games!”
“To demo the game I designed,” the other guy corrects. “I don’t see you doing anything productive with your time.”
“Actually using my dick is very productive, thank you very much.”
I hide a grin. It always boggles my mind how these two could be such close friends. Hollis is a loud-mouthed bro with only one thing on the brain—chicks—while Fitzy is serious and intense with only one thing on his brain—gaming. Or maybe two things, seeing as the guy loves getting tattooed. Somehow they make the friendship work, though it seems like it’s mostly through bickering and flipping each other off.
We pull into a gravel driveway and park in the spot next to Brody’s. His Audi doesn’t look out of place with the rest of the cars, but it doesn’t fit the bar, either. A neon sign over the nondescript building blazes with the words “Boots & Chutes,” which are positioned underneath a half-naked girl riding a bull.
Hollis gapes at the sign. “Seriously? A western-theme titty bar in Boston? This is gonna suck.” He looks like he wants to punch his brother.
“Aren’t you Miss Mary Sunshine.” Brody throws an arm around Hollis and waves for us to come forward. “You babies wanted pussy—well, here you are.”
“Is this what happens after you get out of college? You have to pay for pussy?” Hollis hangs his head. “I’m never leaving Briar, bro. Ever.”
I chuckle. “Hey, think of all the leftover hockey groupies you’ll have access to when Garrett or Logan start playing for the pros.”
That immediately perks him up. “Good point. And look—” He points to the sign “—now you don’t have to leave Boston either. Who needs to move back to Texas when you’ve got cowgirls right here for you?”
I nod, hoping that my cheeks aren’t completely red. And here I thought the Humiliate Sabrina hour was over.
On the walk across the campus, everything looks a little duller. This time I notice that the large patches of lawn are really mostly brown and that the trees are naked without the leaves. The students have an unrelentingly sameness to them—rich and privileged.
When I get home, I toss the books on my dresser and lie down on the bed. There’s a corner near my window where the plaster is cracked and yellowing. Water has been seeping in for as long as I can remember, but after bringing it up to Nana once and getting a blank stare in return, I haven’t mentioned it again.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. There are cracks in the plaster up there too, along with brownish stains that I’ve always wondered about. Maybe there’s a leak in the roof?
A rush of shame washes over me, but I’m not sure what I’m feeling ashamed about. My ugly, rundown home? My cheap clothes? Myself in general?
Pity yourself later. It’s time to pay the bills.
God. The last thing I want to do right now is leave one place of shame and go to another one, but I don’t have much of a choice. My shift at Boots & Chutes starts in an hour.
I force myself to my feet and grab the booty shorts and bra that serve as my uniform. I’m only going to have to do this for ten more months, I remind myself as I shimmy into my outfit and then apply my makeup. I slip on my six-inch platform stripper shoes, throw on my tattered wool coat and head for the strip club. Which, sadly, is the one place where I really do fit in.
I’m trashy. I live with trashy people. I belong in a trashy place.
The question is, will I ever be able to rub off the stench of my past to belong at Harvard? I thought I could.
But tonight, I honestly don’t know.
8
Tucker
“We suck,” Hollis gripes.
“We’re not great,” I acknowledge.
Today’s practice was another disaster, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow’s game against Yale. I was hoping the road trip to Boston would distract us from how badly we’re playing, but we’ve been sitting in this bar for almost an hour, and so far all we’ve talked about is hockey. The Bruins game flashing on multiple screens all around us isn’t helping matters—watching a good team play good hockey is just the icing on the shit cake.
I peer at my empty beer bottle and then wave it in the air to signal the waitress. I’m going to need about five more of these if I want to snap out of this sour mood.
Hollis is still grumbling beside me. “If we don’t start playing some defense, we can kiss our chances at another Frozen Four goodbye.”
“It’s a long season. Let’s not throw in the towel yet,” Fitzy says from across the booth. He’s sipping on a Coke because he’s our DD tonight.
“Are you guys going to talk hockey all night?” Hollis’ brother, Brody, complains. He’s twenty-five, but looks way younger with his clean-shaven face and backwards Red Sox cap.
“What else are we gonna talk about? This place is a sausage fest.” Hollis tosses a napkin at his brother.
He’s not wrong. There are only two women in this bar. They’re around our age, hot as fuck, and they also happen to be making out with each other in a corner booth. Ninety-five percent of the men here—myself included—have already snuck glances at the lip-locked chicks. The other five percent are busy lip-locking each other.
“Fine, you losers.” Brody heaves out an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t like this place? Let’s go.”
“Where?” his little brother asks.
“Where there’s girls.”
“Done and done.”
Three minutes later, we’re climbing into Fitzy’s car and following Brody’s Audi across town.
“Nice wheels,” I remark, gesturing to the shiny silver car ahead of us.
“He leases it,” Hollis informs me. “He likes to act like a big shot, but he’s really not.”
“Gee,” Fitzy drawls from the driver’s seat. “Sound like anyone you know?”
That gets him a middle finger from our teammate. “Dude. I’m more of a big shot than your pansy ass. You didn’t even get laid on your birthday this week.”
“I wasn’t looking to get laid. Trust me, if I was, you wouldn’t have seen me at all that night.”
“We barely saw you, anyway! You went home early to play video games!”
“To demo the game I designed,” the other guy corrects. “I don’t see you doing anything productive with your time.”
“Actually using my dick is very productive, thank you very much.”
I hide a grin. It always boggles my mind how these two could be such close friends. Hollis is a loud-mouthed bro with only one thing on the brain—chicks—while Fitzy is serious and intense with only one thing on his brain—gaming. Or maybe two things, seeing as the guy loves getting tattooed. Somehow they make the friendship work, though it seems like it’s mostly through bickering and flipping each other off.
We pull into a gravel driveway and park in the spot next to Brody’s. His Audi doesn’t look out of place with the rest of the cars, but it doesn’t fit the bar, either. A neon sign over the nondescript building blazes with the words “Boots & Chutes,” which are positioned underneath a half-naked girl riding a bull.
Hollis gapes at the sign. “Seriously? A western-theme titty bar in Boston? This is gonna suck.” He looks like he wants to punch his brother.
“Aren’t you Miss Mary Sunshine.” Brody throws an arm around Hollis and waves for us to come forward. “You babies wanted pussy—well, here you are.”
“Is this what happens after you get out of college? You have to pay for pussy?” Hollis hangs his head. “I’m never leaving Briar, bro. Ever.”
I chuckle. “Hey, think of all the leftover hockey groupies you’ll have access to when Garrett or Logan start playing for the pros.”
That immediately perks him up. “Good point. And look—” He points to the sign “—now you don’t have to leave Boston either. Who needs to move back to Texas when you’ve got cowgirls right here for you?”
