Page 6 of Her Goal
“I’ll deal with you later.”
And who, I suspect, dropped him off.
I tear into the first box, finding a few old books, drawings, and papers from grade school, an inexplicable plastic bag filled with corks, and my first pair of ice skates. On the very bottom, I pull out my high school yearbook.
I thought my mother paid three hundred bucks a month for a storage unit to hold this trash from the past, which I never understood. Then again, she can afford that now. Me too, I suppose. However, I’ll nevernotlook at the menu price of a meal before I order. Yes, even steak. Old habits and all that.
But maybe I was wrong. Could Leah Smith have held onto these boxes?
The yearbook cover is still glossy and embossed withClarksonand our graduating year. When I part the pages, I see the expected comments like,Love ya lots,Never change,So glad we became friends,Good luck, and other empty remarks.
I flip to the back. On the last page for signatures, I find the note from my secret adversary. To this day, I’ve never figured out who it is. It’s like the opposite of a secret admirer, wishing me nothing except for ill will and poor tidings.
This note—what’s become the first of many, but interestingly, is the only time they’ve ever used paper and not email—reads:
Dear Hudson,
Can you believe we’ve reached the end of a terrible four years? I hope the next four are as awful for you as you’ve made mine. You can count yourself lucky if every morning you wake up in a soggy, wet mess to the scent of sour milk and with the sun blazing blindingly into your eyes while you question your life’s choices.
This journey has taught me so much. Not to trust people and definitely avoid libraries of all kinds. The same goes for gymnasiums, locker rooms, labs, the cafeteria, and basically the entire school. Friendly smiles are for suckers. Lollipops arefor lunatics. And I was crazy for ever considering you a decent human.
I should’ve known better. But thanks for the lessons. For showing me what it is to have a twisted sense of humor. Now I know what to watch out for. You made this period of my life truly unforgettable and regrettable.
I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you and I hope it’s all as miserable as a wet cat in a bathtub.
Sincerely,
Your Secret Adversary
P.S. And if you must know, yes, this is a hate note and not a love note. I’m not your admirer. Not even a little bit.
I discovered it after graduation on the night before I took flight to sunnier pastures. Can’t say it bothered me much then, but something about the hostility makes my skin feel slippery.
I eye the gnome. “You know who this is from, don’t you?”
Yeah, let’s not mention that I’m talking to a twelve-inch lawn ornament. If anyone asks, I’m coping just fine with being back in Cobbiton. It’s not like the way we struggled when I was a kid has any bearing on my life now.
Sitting down on the stairs, with my thumb, I fan the pages of the yearbook and land on the page withRlast names. Next to the color photo of me wearing my patent half-smile, my twin brother wears the other half.
Through some act of yearbook committee bribery, in the photo with Hunter is his so-called best friend, Leah—it reminds me of a photo booth pic with the two of them smooshed together. I roll my eyes. I say so-called because the way he treated her and talked behind her back made me wonder why she stuck around, but also explained why Hunter was mostly a loner except for the guys in his band.
My finger slips to the page with theSlast names and I find Leah Smith with her dark hair hanging around her face and with eyes like a cat.
“Did she break into my house earlier?” I give Howie the side eye.
The yearbook clatters onto the stairs as I startle at a knock on the door. First, the gnome, and now an unwelcome visitor. That’s why I like city life. Everyone left me alone. Not that I’m a lone wolf. Not by a long stretch. However, I’m the master of my domain. My house is where I don’t have to be “on.” When I’m out, I flip the switch and activate the charm and persona people associate with “Rebound Robo.” The name has nothing to do with my dating life, but rather my role as goalie—or at least, it used to.
From the door, someone calls, “Special delivery.”
Hopefully, this isn’t the same kind that came for one of the Knights’ defensemen last season in the form of a baby on his stoop—if the rumors are true. One garden gnome is enough, thank you very much.
Laughter peels from outside. This has to be the guys. Before I get up, the door flies open, and a brigade of hockey players in casual dress parade inside. The first one carries a stack of pizza boxes. The next has an assortment of cold beverages. The third has a candle with a Candlegram logo and is labeled “Locker Room Scented.” He shoves it in my hands.
“Congrats on the new place,” says a guy with a mustache—James Reddford.
“Uh, thanks?” I reply.
“Just so you know, this wasn’t my idea. That would be Beau—the other goalie.”
