Growing Up: A Million Miles From Home

Chapter 1 - This First Day of Summer in SoCal

Mom woke me from a terrible sleep. My muscles ached, my legs stiff and sore, like I hadn’t slept for hours, with my mind groggy, the sunshine through my new bedroom too bright.

Mom yelled from outside my new bedroom door, “Dear, you need to get up for soccer practice.”

Shit! Soccer practice. I knew almost nothing about soccer. I’ve never played, except in physical education class, which does count. How will I survive this?

Mom says we lucked out that they let me join, because all the other summer activities she investigated had already begun or didn’t have room, as if I needed a summer activity. This team needed one more player to make eleven girls, which meant that they needed a pylon in a person’s body, way to make me feel wanted. I didn’t feel lucky. I know I would get bored if I didn’t do anything, and with no friends, I would get extra bored, but soccer, with pros that have played together for years, I would have preferred ultra boredom than getting crushed on a soccer field, or pitch, as Mom called it.

I threw on panties, shorts, a bra, a t-shirt, socks, and running shoes, as I would have worn to PE class. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and ran to our new kitchen. We just moved here, like literally yesterday. Twenty-four hours ago, I left my friends in New York, right after the wildest party. Now, boxes surrounded us, covered the counter, table, and whole kitchen, while shockingly bright sun streamed in the kitchen window.

I squinted around at our new place, a basic single-level, rambler or California rancher, I think, with two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a garage with room for two cars, and so ugly, yellows and browns, like from the old days. It had the old house odor, not horrible, but that combination of cleaning supplies that didn’t quite mask the former tenant’s presence.

We had a backyard and front yard, something we didn’t have back home, as we lived in apartments all my life. The idea that someone could just walk up to our front door and ring the bell or walk in made me feel funny, definitely not relaxed, and definitely not like a home.

Standing at the kitchen sink, I squinted at our green lawn with an insignificant yellowish bush. A cute herd of all-white rabbits huddled around and under the bush. On the other side of the lawn sat a black-eared rabbit, off by itself. Lonely, it made me sad for the poor thing.

“We’ve no food. We’ll get something on the way to soccer practice,” Mom yelled from her room.

I nodded and turned to find the door to the garage. Happily, I only opened two wrong doors - the bathroom and laundry room- before I discovered our massive two-car garage, with only one car - a rental for the moment, and a large pile of boxes on the other side.

“What’d you want?” Mom asked as she rushed me into the car.

“Starbucks,” I replied, and wiped sleep from my eyes.

Starbucks appeared everywhere, and I knew what to get. I didn’t want to begin my first morning with some hippy-dippy SoCal food.

I happily sipped a chocolate mint mocha while nibbling on a blueberry muffin when we finally arrived at the soccer field.

The best and worst of Southern California, evenly spaced bright green trees surrounded the emerald grass field. An ugly old chain link fence protected the green oasis from a series of brutal, windowless industrial buildings. And in typical strange world fashion, the field had that fresh grass and trees smell, punctuated by whiffs of industrial oil and dog shit. Only a small black parking lot, on a slight hill from the field, gave us access to this hidden green gem. Mom almost missed the small driveway between the large protective trees; only Mom’s GPS saved us.

We must have arrived last, as a decuplet of identical smiling blonde girls hung out or played soccer on the field. They all wore blue short shorts, white and blue team tank tops, white or black sports bras, black cleats, and long white and blue knee socks with white or blue shin guards. Most had their hair in ponytails - some in French braids.

One girl did stand out - she wore a bright orange jersey with large gloves - maybe the goalie?

The female coach, a larger version of the girls, except in longer shorts and a t-shirt-styled team jersey - still blonde ponytail, soccer cleats, socks, and shin pads, and the male coach, fat, in a too-tight red golf shirt, too-tight black dress pants, and scuffed black dress shoes, stood on the sidelines. He studied a clipboard while she passed balls to some of the girls.

I sipped my mint mocha and tried to appear and feel brave. My dark black hair identified me as an obvious outsider. Back home, everyone had different hair colors. Here, I didn’t belong. Unless I bleach my hair, I will never belong. Did this have a point?

“Do I have to?” I asked my mom.

“Yes, you need new friends, and you’ll have fun,” she said, concerned, worried, because not blind, she could see that I didn’t belong.

“I talked to the coach. She was nice.” Mom said to cheer me up, which totally didn’t work. I didn’t want to go out there. I knew nothing about soccer, and these girls did.

“I don’t even know how to kick the ball, and these girls are so pro,” I said, with a whine in my voice, a play to remind her of little girl me. Mom would likely still make me go, but I might have a chance if I could guilt her or appeal to her protective mommy instinct.

“This is the lowest league. The coach said they just play for fun,” Mom said, and touched my shoulder. Jasmine, Mom wore jasmine perfume. She always wears jasmine perfume when she feels guilty about something.

She tried to comfort me, but her hand pressured me to leave the safety of the car, to do something I didn’t want to do, like play soccer with pretty teenage blonde clones.

“Whatever,” I mumbled. We walked to meet my new team.

The female coach waved to us, and I instantly liked her. She looked so welcoming and friendly. The rest of the girls stopped talking or playing, glanced our way, and then returned to their own worlds. Their body language said it all - “Great, a new girl, and she’s a freak.”

“Are you Margot? I’m Coach Lisa, this is Coach Mark,” Female Coach Lisa said as she gestured to the male coach beside her. She had glitter on her pink nail polish. What parent, coach, does that? The cool ones.

“Call me Coach Wilson,” the male coach said without glancing up from his clipboard. Typical, just like all the asshole gym teachers back home who only care about the super jocks.

“I’m Mrs. Boucher, call me Deb,” Mom said to the coaches while I partially hid in her shadow. Like, turn down the sun already.

“Mark,” Coach Wilson said directly to Mom. I didn’t like the way he leered at my mom.

“Lisa,” Coach Lisa said to Mom, then asked me again, “And you are Margot?” Kind, like a patronizing teacher, but kind’s kind, and her rosy cheeks made her radiate in this sun.

My mom chuckled and interrupted me, “Sorry. Yes, Margot, say hi!” Mom means well, but she can’t stop butting into my life. I didn’t need her to speak for me.

“Hi,” I mumbled and studied my off-white shoes. I hate that I had trouble talking to people. I hate my shyness. We have worked on it, and I have improved, but this team, of blonde girls, with a blonde coach, and an asshole male coach, overwhelmed me. Why does Mom want me to do this?

“OK. Girls, warm-up lap,” Coach Wilson yelled as he turned away from us, like Mom and I no longer mattered.

“Margot, do you have cleats or shin protectors?” Coach Lisa asked me directly.

My mom responded, on my behalf, again, “No, didn’t have time to get those. Does she need them for today?” Great, I didn’t even have the correct equipment. How can this get worse?

“No, today’s our first practice. So easy. Margot’ll be fine,” Coach Lisa said and gave me a reassuring smile. At least Coach Lisa acted like a decent person, unlike jerk Coach Wilson.

“As long as she doesn’t get kicked too hard in the shins,” Coach Wilson said while ignoring us.

What problem does he have with me?

“I’ll buy her some right now,” Mom said.

“Margot, here’s your uniform,” Coach Lisa said as she handed me a small bag.

“Thanks,” I mumbled and glanced at her perfect face. With pink lipstick, she stood like an older version of the classic Valley girl, with a flawless complexion, large smile, and twinkling eyes. I gazed at her overly large chest. Her breasts appeared too large for natural. I peered around for a place to change.

“No change rooms. Use the washroom over there,” Coach Lisa said as she pointed to a tiny building with one door, a unisex washroom. Where I grew up, males and females had their own washrooms, but here, they must think so differently. I had heard that, but this small thing confirmed it. Hippy dippy weirdos.

“Thanks,” I said louder this time, trying for less shy. Mom calls it baby steps, like she still thinks of me as a baby. I ran off to the washroom to get changed.

“Have fun, dear!” Mom yelled as I arrived at the beaten-up, red bathroom door, covered in black marker dicks, pussies, and a comment that said, ‘For a good orgy, join soccer.’

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Chapter 2: I have to wear what and do what?

A petite washroom, with only a single sink, toilet stall, and a small area for changing. I slipped off my shirt and shorts to put on the new gear. So short, the shorts showed the bottom of my ass cheeks, and the tank top had large armholes, and, worse, I wore the wrong bra. If I lifted my arms, people could easily see my nipples through my white lace bra. So stupid. If I had only spent five extra minutes this morning to find my sports bra, but instead, lazy, stupid, and half asleep, I wore the bra that would flash my breasts to the world. So stupid to join soccer, I can’t imagine what went through Mom’s head. Let’s sign her up for soccer, something she can’t do. I couldn’t even dress appropriately.

I stayed in the washroom and debated about going out dressed like this. Maybe if I pretended to have too much jet lag? Or a sore ankle? Or sick? My stomach flipped and flopped, and I felt queasy. What if I threw up? No one makes an ill person play soccer. Super gross to spew, but maybe worth it. My mind moved on to faking period cramps when the door opened, and in walked Coach Wilson. The minuscule washroom didn’t really fit both of us, especially such a big guy. Fear rose in the back of my throat.

“You ok?” he asked with his words, but his eyes and tone said, “You had better be sick, or I will give you something to be sick about.”

He scared me. All my plans exited my mind. In panic mode, I mumbled, “Yeah, just coming now.” I rushed to get around him and out of this cramped space.

“Do you need help with anything?” Again, his words said one thing, but his eyes and tone said something else.

What if he tried to grope me? I couldn’t defend myself against someone so big. I couldn’t stop him.

“No, all good,” I mumbled as I slipped by him and out of the room. I glanced back as I ran to the field. Shit, I left my other clothes in the washroom.

Coach Wilson didn’t follow me. Double shit, I can’t go back in there with him. I returned to chaos.

Girls kicked balls to each other and ran around the field, passing, and shooting. I couldn’t follow, too much blonde hair, too many soccer balls, I just stood at the side of the field and tried to figure out what to do.

Coach Lisa waved to me, ran over, and asked, “Have you ever played the beautiful game before?”

“Only in class,” I mumbled back.

“So you know the rules and how to kick the ball?” She said in a soft tone, so gentle, which both soothed my soul and made me mad at myself for needing soothing.

“Yeah, maybe,” I tried to speak a little louder.

“Let’s see,” she said as she jogged over to a spare ball and kicked it towards me. Toned legs, firm ass, and perfect blonde hair. Typical SoCal woman, bubbly, bright, and full of too much energy.

She kicked it perfectly, which meant I stopped it and kicked it back in her general direction. I felt pleased she only had to run a few steps to get it.

“Right, we’ll work on this,” she said and kicked the ball back towards me. Like, yeah, we’ll work on it. Right after I quit and take up something less embarrassing, like clown school or something.

Coach Lisa and I spent most of the practice kicking the ball back and forth. I didn’t know so many ways to kick a ball existed. Coach Lisa, bewilderingly patient, knowledgeable, and oh, so beautiful, taught me more in that practice than my school ever taught me. I liked her before. Now, I loved her, and I don’t lean that way, at least, I don’t think I lean that way. But she had such a cute smile, bright white teeth, and she always smiled, like all the time.

Near the end of practice, Coach Wilson called everyone into a circle.

“Ok, girls, we’ll play a short scrimmage, then call it a day. Anna, you and Coach Lisa are captains,” Coach Wilson said, like a sergeant in the military, firm, no nonsense, as he gestured to each side.

Coach Lisa gave Coach Wilson a slightly annoyed glance.

Shit, I had no idea how to play soccer. I barely knew how to kick the ball, and now I had to play on a team with these pro girls. Fit, fast, they will laugh at me. I just hoped they didn’t tease me too much.

The girl in the goalie shirt, Anna, jogged to one side, while Coach Lisa walked to the other.

“Eva - Julia - Tess - Abigail - Ada - Fenna - Lise - Zoe - Bella,” I tried to memorize the names, but they picked too fast. I noticed a few differences, mainly in the chest and body types.

“Margot,” Coach Lisa selected me with the final pick. Just like in gym class, but unlike PE, I bet they’ll not let me hide in the corner and pretend to play.

Dead fucking last, which makes sense. I suck at soccer. I didn’t belong here. I had fun, well, Coach Lisa made it fun, but Mom would just have to understand, I needed to quit. No, she wouldn’t just let me quit. I needed to come up with an exception reason. Doubtful, but maybe. Something like my leg falls off, or they kick me off the team.

I jogged over to our side of the ball, already exhausted from the hot sun and the most physical activity I’ve ever done. How could I play so exhausted? How do you play? The little I learned in class did nothing to prepare me. Even if it did, these girls have played for years. Pros for sure.

“Zoe, can you play goal?” Coach Lisa asked.

“Like, no. I don’t wanna. Can’t you play it again?” Zoe said, with the same type of whine that I tried on Mom. Zoe’s whine worked better.

“Zoe, we need, I need you in net. We’ll switch you out halfway?” Coach Lisa said with a firm voice but also a smile.

“I guess…” Zoe whined and jogged to our goal.

Zoe appeared, with her half-closed eyes and slight smile, and moved, more stumbled, as if stoned. What the hell?

“Margot, just stay near me and do your best,” Coach Lisa said as we all turned to begin the game. I stood about two feet to Coach Lisa’s right, with my fellow teammates, in the same jerseys as the other team, on our left. I couldn’t tell any of them apart. Blonde, all gorgeous, all fit, and all real soccer players.

Perplexed and disoriented, I ran around lost for the first bit of the game. These girls had skills and knew what to do. Lots of passing, running, and quickly, a goal for the other side. I wouldn’t have known who to pass to or to try to get the ball off, even if I had the opportunity to do either.

I tried to run beside Coach Lisa, but she moved way too fast. She ran faster, dribbling the ball, than I did at full sprint. At one point, I stood out of position in the corner near their net. I couldn’t keep up with the play. Coach Lisa stole the ball from the other team and passed it straight to me. I stopped it just like she taught me, turned, and took a shot.

Anna, the only name I remembered because of her jersey, comfortably stopped my shot. So focused on complimenting myself on remembering her name that I almost missed the rebound that landed at my feet. I pulled my leg back for a second attempt, when one of the girls did a sliding tackle on me, knocking away the ball, slamming her cleats into my shin, which knocked me over onto the soft green grass.