Page 95 of Rock Bottom Girl

It was a whistle engraved with the words ‘Coach Marley.’ Courtesy of Jake. I had to give him credit. The man was an excellent gift giver.

I tapped out a text and attached a picture of the scoreboard.

Me: Another W in the books.

Jake: Nicely done, Coach. I’m thinking I should take my girl out to celebrate. Bonfire Saturday?

Oh, boy.

Culpepper had two kinds of bonfires. The high school kind where underage drinking and sex happened. And the adult kind where overage drinking and bullshitting occurred. I’d never actually been to an adult bonfire here. It was one of those moments when I had to take a mental step back and wonder when the hell I’d turned into an adult. And when the hell would I start feeling like one. Inside, I was still an overgrown, wounded teenager who had no idea how to function in the real world.

“Are you texting your boooooyfriend?” Phoebe asked, peering over my shoulder.

“Maybe,” I said.

She screwed up her nose and studied me. “Have you ever thought of like, I don’t know…trying?”

“What?”

“You know, like makeup, hair, shoes that don’t have to be tied? Something above and beyond moisturizer and deodorant?”

“Is Phoebe talking to you about making an effort?” Natalee’s head popped up over the seat.

“Hey, we were going to tag team this. Remember?” Morgan E. groused, sliding in next to the sleeping Vicky.

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked, not sure I really wanted an answer.

“Okay. Obviously Mr. Weston is into you, and that’s great. But you’re still kinda sad-circling around.” Natalee said, brushing her fringe of glossy black hair back from her face.

“Sad circling?”

“Remember that antidepressant prescription commercial with the sad circle?”

“Yes,” I said carefully. Was I a cartoon frowny face with a rain cloud over my head?

“That’s you,” Angela said, appearing one seat back in the aisle.

“Look. We know in the nineties, it was cool to be all apathetic and stuff. But that was alongtime ago,” Morgan E. explained.

“Yeah, like a hundred years,” Angela snorted.

“Thank you for that, Angela.”

She smirked at me.

“What are you trying to say?”

“We think if you made an effort with your appearance, you’d be happier,” Phoebe insisted.

I wasn’t a stranger to makeup or hair products. It wasn’tthatlong ago that I’d dressed in nice pants and pretty shirts and worn mascara every single day. But it had all seemed pointless given my current circumstances.

I was just passing through. Just filling in. My fake boyfriend didn’t care what I did with my hair.

“Isn’t this sending the wrong message? Making yourself artificially prettier to be more attractive to other people?” I argued.

Natalee scoffed. “That’s adorable. And so wrong. You don’t make an effort for other people. You do it for yourself.”

“Duh,” Morgan E. added.