Page 13

Chapter 13

Certified Freak

Isaiah

Spring. Sophomore Year.

T his is exactly how I like to spend my Saturdays: coming off a win against Penn Valley on their own turf, and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon from a keg at a house off campus. Penn isn’t too far from my college in New Jersey, so our club teams regularly play each other. Plus, it’s nice to see my sister and Rafael since they attend Penn.

Raf played one hell of a game and has a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder. He’s holding a beer in one hand and taking a puff from a joint that’s being passed around.

We traveled with our women’s team today, the Lady Killers, so there are four rugby teams filling this house and backyard. Some people have already left to go back, but there are still about forty people here.

“IceMan,” my vet, Gimli, says, throwing an arm around me. He’s nicknamed Gimli because, well, he looks like Gimli from Lord of the Rings . “I need you to sing ‘Titties.’”

Gimli picked me as his rookie when I started on the team freshman year, and even though I’m technically a veteran, I’ll always be his rookie. And rookies do as they’re told. Not that I need much convincing. I know every rugby drinking song by heart now.

“Coming right up.” I clear my throat. “Me me me me me me meeee,” I sing as loud as I can, pretending to warm up my vocals as I stand in a sea of ruggers.

Every single person shuts the fuck up. It’s like, rugby law: you hear the tune, and you sing along.

I’ve sung this song a few times solo now, so I’m confident even while five beers deep. “Gimme gimme gimme gimme number one. When I see titties, I wanna have some fun! ‘Cuz they’re round—”

“Oh yeah!” the crowd barks.

“And they’re firm—”

“Oh yeah!”

“When I see titties—”

“Oh yeah!”

“I wanna sperm!”

“Oh yeah!”

Ruggers everywhere proceed to dip their hands in their beer and fling the droplets over everyone’s heads while slowly turning three hundred and sixty degrees, singing, “Titties titties titties!” on repeat.

Nine more rounds are done. Everyone has spun their last spin, flicked the beer from their cups, and waited with bated breath to see if I fucked up the lyrics—to which I’m happy to announce, I did not.

Everyone drinks the remainder of their beer, and the din of the crowd starts back up. Except a tall girl with arresting hazel eyes steps forward and stands in the middle, where a small space is clear—right in front of me.

She holds her cup in one hand and pours more beer from a pitcher with the other, setting the pitcher down before hollering, “Hold on. I know at least half of us ladies love to sing about titties, but I think it’s time the underrepresented straights have a turn.”

I laugh because I can see her point. Women’s rugby teams are stacked with lesbians.

Without any further ado, this girl launches into a song I’ve never heard. It’s a version of the titties song.

“Gimme gimme gimme gimme number one! When I see penis I wanna have some fun! ‘Cuz they’re long—”

All the ladies shout, “Oh yeah!”

“And they’re thick—”

“Oh yeah!”

“When I see penis—”

“Oh yeah!”

“I wanna lick!”

“Oh yeah!”

All our guys start laughing because, one, this song is hilarious we’re all immature, and two, the fucking balls on this girl are commendable. She’s owning it. She has dried mud all over her legs, a black eye forming from the game earlier, and a sunburn across her cheeks.

And she’s fucking fearless.

Her team is laughing right along with us, but soon everyone has joined in.

When the drunken chorus ends and the cups have been raised, there’s a small ovation of cheers for this woman.

“Well done,” I nod, softly clinking my plastic cup against hers.

“Thank you,” she smiles brightly.

Rafael pushes past a couple of players and nudges her shoulder with a laugh. “You’ve been working on that one, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been saving it,” she admits. “Been waiting for the right moment to bring it out.”

“Birdie, this is my buddy IceMan,” Raf beams, throwing his arm around my shoulders.

I hold out my hand, and she shakes it. “Christian name is Isaiah.”

“Birdie. Robyn in the real world.”

Just then, my sister Angie stumbles over to us. “Penis, penis, penis,” she sings, then hiccups before continuing, “ Penis, penis, penis, penis!” Her giggling makes them laugh, but I’m cringing.

“This is my social,” Raf says. “And here you are, drunker than me.”

“Can we go to Taco Bell?” she pleads, fisting his shirt.

Raf rolls his eyes. “Of course we can go to Taco Bell.”

“Woo!” Angie cheers, throwing her fists high in the air. “T-Bell run! Who’s sober—” she hiccups, “—enough to drive?”

Angie has already booked it to another group of people looking for a DD when Rafael pats me on the back. “No, no. Allow me to take care of your inebriated sister,” he chuckles.

“Hey, I’m just a visitor. She’s your responsibility at school.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Raf gives me a playful shove and leaves, trying to find his best friend.

“So, you’re Angie’s brother?” Robyn asks, and I nod. “And you go to Brightwood, obviously. How long have you been playing?”

“I’m a sophomore, and I’ve been with the team since freshman year. I played in high school with Raf, actually. How about you?”

“This is my first year playing. I started back in the fall. I’m a freshman.”

“Well, you fit right in with the rugby community,” I chuckle.

“Oh, you mean the community of fucking weirdos? Thanks,” she smiles and holds her beer up. “It’s a badge of honor.”

“We are a strange bunch, aren’t we?”

“I think you have to be in order to play this sport.”

This has me curious. “What makes you weird?”

“Oh, besides singing to a crowd of people about dicks?” I huff a laugh and nod. “Let’s see… When I eat extra spicy food, I like the way it hurts my gums, and I’ll stick toothpicks between my teeth for added pain.” Before I can ask a follow-up question, she keeps going. “I love the smell of my own body odor. In my hometown in Minnesota, I’m the reigning Mayonnaise Queen. I won that title in a Midwest Salad-eating competition.”

“Salad?”

“Yeah. You know, like a hearty salad tossed in a lot of mayo?”

“Oh my god,” I chuckle.

“I write Disney villain fanfiction. My two biggest fears include seaweed touching my feet and balloons. I think Owl City is the best band. I cry watching videos of hedgehogs, and I think I would perish if I got to hold one in real life. My favorite feeling in the world comes from scrunching up an empty bag of popcorn when it’s still steaming,” she says, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

There’s a long pause as this girl in front of me, I don’t know…pretends she’s holding a hot crumpled bag of popcorn?

“Okay,” I drawl. “You’re weird.”

She bows dramatically, waving her hand delicately before saying, “Thank you.”

Outside, we find a quiet place to chat and spend the rest of the social in our own little bubble. She’s easy to talk to, and she gets me. When I told her about my favorite bands, she knew who I was talking about. We talked about our favorite rugby songs and verses. We laughed about the shock on people’s faces when they hear rugby lingo for the first time, like ruck and hooker. About the professors who take us aside to gravely ask if everything is okay at home because we’re covered in bruises most of the year.

She fucking gets me.

“Cumeth!” my teammate barks from the car idling in the driveway. “Let’s go, dude!”

“Is he okay to drive?” she asks.

“Yeah, Woody’s always the DD. He doesn’t drink.”

“Good,” she exhales. “Can I get your number? We’ll probably be seeing more of each other, I assume,” she smiles.

“Oh. Y-yeah,” I say, pulling my phone out as we exchange information. “Let me know when you’re coming up to play against us.”

“I will,” she beams, then to my surprise, stands on her tiptoes and throws her arms around my neck. Instinctively, I hug her back, leaning down slightly. It’s nice. But it’s the way ruggers are—we're affectionate people. “Text me when you get home so I know you got there safe?”

“Sure,” I nod, and we break apart. “Maybe go put some ice on that black eye,” I tease.

A car horn blares over whatever she tries to say next.

“Nice to meet you, Robyn!” I call back with a wave as I jog to the car.

When we pull onto the road, I check my phone to see she’s already texted me.

Nice to meet you too smiley face rugby ball emoji

The rest of the ride back to New Jersey goes by faster than I imagine because Robyn and I end up texting the whole way. When I tell her I’m home safe, we spend another two hours texting until we both pass out.

Reality comes in like a freight train when my Sunday morning alarm goes off. And like every Sunday for the past year and a half, I get up, shower, dress, and pick up my girlfriend Jessica for church.