Chapter Text
Amy’s pissed. She has twenty solid minutes to sit her team on the bleachers and talk strategy for their next meeting before they pass the gymnasium to the next team. It’s week three of their practice schedule and they have one solid win under their belt, so Amy wants to get a routine in place so the team carries the right momentum.
But five minutes before Amy relieves them of the suicide sprints, an entire 18&under boys team invades the unused line in the gymnasium. The coach is loud, barks orders around the whistle dangling grossly from his lips. The girls have the gym reserved for another full half hour, but the coach won’t stand still long enough to reason with Amy.
Amy stomps back to their side of the court, where all her youths are lined up recovering from their last sprint that was cut short at the opposite free throw line. She tries to be cool, but her voice shakes when she tells the team they will meet in the hallway today. Amy swipes her clipboard from the bleachers and heads right for the double doors. The girls have never seen Amy lose her cool; it’s always scary when an adult flips a switch. Becky steps up quickly though, a flawless assistant coach, and calmly directs the girls to pick up the orange practice cones.
“Water at the fountain after the meeting, ladies,” Becky reassures them.
They file out to Coach Amy where she’s firmly planted her feet, shoulder width apart, in front of a bulletin board of watercolors on display. It’s a funny juxtaposition. Becky can practically see the steam blowing from her ears.
But Amy gets her act together, delivers a cogent, accessible pep talk. The next time the team will meet is Saturday for their second game. She doesn’t use the clipboard, even though her knuckles are white as she’s explaining her notes from practice. Parents, confused as to why the girls are in the hallway, keep opening the gym door and leaking just a moment of the skidding, deep sounds of the invading boys practice. But Amy keeps her cool, gives Becky a chance to make any closing remarks despite the noise. They circle up, hands in, and break for the day.
“You think we can talk to the director?” Becky says quietly.
She hands over the practice cones she collected from the girls. Amy opens the mesh bag and drops the stack in.
“What are they going to say?” Amy retorts.
It’s a rainy, gross day outside, so none of the parents hang around to speak with Amy.
“They can’t kick us out if it’s reserved,” Becky reasons. The hallway clears out, no lingering parents or players.
“We’ll just have to see if he does it again. Hang the schedule on the doors if we have to,” Amy says.
She stoops to drink from the water fountain. From the side angle, she can see the very edge of the reception desk where it opens into the hallway.
“Whatever you think is best, Coach,” Becky agrees.
Amy straightens to let Becky have a sip. Amy doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, wants to put it behind her.
“Damn right I’m your coach,” Amy assesses playfully.
Becky’s doing her a favor, stepping in as assistant when the ridiculous youth volunteer who Amy originally recruited bailed in the middle of the team’s first practice. They met as freshman, roomed together as sophomores before Becky went abroad her junior year. Becky laughs a little, into the stream of water.
“Come on, Becky. Hygiene. Make it a priority,” Amy jeers.
Becky swipes at her mouth with the back of her wrist.
“Wait, so, you don’t put your entire mouth on the spout?” Becky asks, mocking.
They walk side-by-side to the reception desk where Alex and Liz are organizing the office supplies. Usually it’s the other way around, Alex and Liz peeking through the narrow window on the gym doors, waiting for practice to end so they can all ride the green line home together.
“You’re going to need to move those post-its,” Amy continues her mock orders. Liz blushes, absently does as she’s told.
“Oh my god, it’s a joke, you freak,” Alex insists. She snatches the pad and tosses it to the ground. “We’ll make Steven crawl around the wires to find it tomorrow morning. Ha!”
“Is this how you treat all patrons of this establishment?” Becky asks. Her voice delivers a certain air, like a misplaced impression.
“I can’t be responsible for my actions after six o clock. Speaking of, where are all your children?” Alex turns. Becky defers to Amy, unsure how to explain.
“Decided to let practice out early. Give them a little leeway after their win,” Amy lies.
“Not judging your coaching decisions,” Alex says, like an aside to herself.
“Reacting appropriately,” Liz puts in.
“Getting Becky a Sprite. Buying Cheetos for Becky,” Becky tries to convince them, plays along with their stage directions.
“Giving Becky the finger under the front desk,” Liz counters.
The sound of the front door actually opening makes Liz jump. She straightens her shoulders, like it could be her boss coming for a performance review or something.
It’s not. It’s just a slender, androgynous figure who pulls a black beanie off her head to reveal a shock of blond hair.
“WHOA!” Alex notes.
The woman shoots Alex a bright smile.
“You like?” she asks.
“Kick ass,” Liz exclaims. The woman flicks her head back and forth, combs through in a quick attempt at style.
“Still getting used to seeing it in the mirror,” she explains. “Hi, I’m Megan,” she introduces herself, suddenly.
“Becky!” Becky chirps.
Megan comes around the front desk with purpose. She shakes Becky’s hand assuredly. Megan looks at Amy with a wide expression, expectant. She’s titling her head so that it’s obvious she’s craning her ear inwards, inviting conversation. Amy can’t figure out how to talk.
“This is my Coach Amy!” Becky fills, not letting Amy skip a beat. Amy offers her hand.
“Hi Becky’s Coach Amy,” Megan says, shaking her hand too. “Oh, you’re Alex’s roommate, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Amy manages. “I like your hair,” she adds.
“Thanks! Hope they recognize me in there!” Megan kids.
Liz and Alex chuckle. It makes Alex look at the old clock on the wall above their heads.
“Quitting time, partner,” Alex says to Liz.
Liz smiles, but ducks under the desk to retrieve those post-it notes.
“Invitation is always open to join me,” Megan says with a sweeping lilt to her voice.
She moves around the desk, backs away before throwing Amy and Becky a wide smile.
“Thanks!” Alex says, noncommittal.
“Nice to have met you, ladies,” she bids.
She lifts her hand solidly in the air. The rubber soles of her combat boots make a different kind of squish against the economy tile. Amy catches the woman stuff the beanie into the back pocket of her jeans.
Liz and Alex clock out at the computer and gather their things. Alex changes her shoes quickly, stuffing her flimsy flats into her backpack for favor of her sleek sneakers. They clash something awful with her navy-printed pencil skirt.
“I don’t think La Hacienda serves victims of fashion,” Liz notes.
The four of them file out of the glass doors and head north for the 2 block walk to the metro station. The weather’s let up, giving way to an overcast, grey sunset.
“I’m actually a champion of awesome ideas,” Alex corrects. “And they will serve me with pride,” she tacks on.
+
“So, what was um, Megan? Talking about?” Amy asks, stalling in Alex’s doorway.
Alex is hunched over her laptop at her desk. She’s writing again, trying to finish an edit on her resume since her one-act was accepted to a drama festival that ran last spring. She’s trying to get involved in a new production at a local playhouse, provided her resume falls in the right hands.
She doesn’t remember the conversation from yesterday.
“What?” she looks up, but not at Amy. Just at the wall, her calendar pinned directly above her desk.
“About joining her. For what?” Amy presses.
She pretends to rub at a smudge on the doorframe. If she were to treat each inch of their 2-bedroom with the same care, she’d be scrubbing for days.
“Oh. She runs the uh, you know, the gay club. The GSA. Or whatever,” Alex explains.
“I think that’s only in high schools,” Amy says.
“You know what I mean. The LGBT support group du jour,” Alex responds.
She looks like she’s calculating as she scrolls up on her computer screen.
“You guys talk about me a lot, or?” Amy lets her voice trail off.
“What?” Alex checks.
She rolls her chair back. The plastic wheels glide over the old wooden floors after some coercion from Alex’s strong shins.
“She knows we live together,” Amy notes.
It hangs in the air for a moment. Alex furrows her brow.
“Yeah, she asked me if I wanted dibs on a room for rent when her housemate bailed. That’s all there is to that,” Alex says.
“I mean, I don’t care. You just never mentioned her before,” Amy shrugs.
Alex looks her up-and-down. Amy messes with her bangs, sticks her tongue out to wet her lips.
“She’s cool, I guess. I don’t really, you know, know her. She’s always saying the group needs more allies. I mean, if, you know, you wanted me to go with you, I would,” Alex suggests. She adds, as an afterthought. “For solidarity. Girl power.” Alex always knows how to break the tension. It’s her writer’s mind, her improv training in supplementing thin air.
Amy has to laugh.
“It’s not,” Amy starts. She leans her shoulder casually against the doorframe. “It’s not that I want to join her club. I mean, maybe more figuratively,” Amy settles.
“So talk to her,” Alex says. Like it’s that simple.
“Well, I just, sort of thought the pieces might be fun to put together,” Amy finds herself saying.
“I don’t understand what you want from me,” Alex sits back in her chair.
“I mean, do you think we’d be a good match?” Amy pushes. Alex shrugs.
“Maybe? Like, I know more about Liz, so,” Alex dangles.
“Maybe I will go to a meeting. Just to, you know, see what it’s about,” Amy resolves.
“Invite Liz with you,” Alex supplies.
“Really?” Amy levels. It’s Alex’s turn to shrug.
“It’s a nice gesture. Camaraderie. Or whatever Ellen DeGeneres is doing these days. I don’t know. You’re the lesbian, not me. Maybe it’ll be a sign she’s been waiting for,” Alex says dreamily.
“Go to bed. You’re not making sense,” Amy dismisses.
“Mmm, I wish I had an Atavan,” Alex gives Amy a sneaky look. She bats her eyes.
“I’m not sharing anything with you again until you set me up with someone sexy,” Amy jokes.
She still goes into her room to dig one from the prescription bottle stuffed into a secret storage drawer. Alex bubbles in her desk chair when Amy brings it to her.
“You should take half, oh, nope, you’re just gonna, okay,” Amy narrates while Alex knocks it back dry.
“Can you wake me up when you leave tomorrow? I want to get a morning run in,” Alex requests.
“Are you going to slap my hands like last time or am I free from risk of assault since I’m medicating you?” Amy whips.
“We’ll see how the night goes, I guess,” Alex taunts. She goes back to her keyboard. Amy pauses at the doorframe.
“I’m serious, don’t hit me tomorrow morning,” Amy says.
“You don’t know my matchmaking methods,” Alex hints. “We need to see if she can handle it,” her voice has a dark rasp to it. She mutters the phrase like she’s leading an imaginary confederacy inside of her.
“Too far, Morgan. Too far,” Amy dismisses, pulling the door behind her. “I’m locking you in til sunrise,” Amy explains.
“Goodnight!” Alex calls through the thin divide.
+
Alex does swat at Amy when she wakes her up. So, in repayment, Alex has to keep Amy’s books for their game on Saturday. It’s an away game not but four stops away along the metro.
“They’re 13. Why are you keeping stats?” Alex whines. She sips her homemade fruit smoothie from her Nalgene as the tram halts.
“They need positive role models to take vested interest in their successes. Seriously, isn’t this like, in the creed?” Amy lectures. She moves her bag between her legs to make room for boarding passengers.
“Not the secretary’s creed. That’s all I’m good for, isn’t it? Diligently recording the facts. No interpretation needed. Don’t let want my feeble mind getting filled with ideas,” Alex bites. She takes an aggressive sip from her straw. The oversized sunglasses complete her sour look.
“You can think about that next time you bite the hand that…wakes,” Amy finalizes.
“Who’s bringing snacks?” Alex asks.
“I have a granola bar if you need it,” Amy offers. She unzips her bag and pulls out the shiny pink wrapper.
“What is your thing with gluten-free?” Alex asks, annoyed. She snatches the bar from Amy’s outstretched hand. “What did gluten ever do to you?”
“It’s not me. It’s my job. You know Riley can’t have that stuff,” Amy says, gently.
“If those kids need snacks, you need to ask Christie. Spend your money on things that you like, not the kids you nanny for,” Alex riles.
“You mean things youlike,” Amy supplements. Alex tears into the wrapper.
“Well, I have your best interest in mind,” Alex insists, chewing.
They get off at the next stop. Alex tosses the wrapper into the rubbish bin before speed-walking up the stairs to the pedestrian overpass. Becky’s already watching the preceding 10&under game from the bleachers when Alex and Amy find the right gym. It takes a while for the teams to clear out, but Amy and Becky check in at the score table not long after they queue the warm up CD over the PA.
Amy gets her team gathered, inspects their uniforms and informs Becky how to help them execute a dribble-and-shoot warm-up. She sets Alex up in the second fold-out metal chair, provides a sharp pencil and everything. She turns to Alex, dramatically with “Pump Up the Jam” playing tinny over the speaker.
“Please don’t mess up my books. I really need accurate numbers for the first few games. I’ve got to have a game plan for the practice drills we’ll work through for the rest of the season,” Amy instructs. She offers the thin spiral book tenuously.
“It’s not my first rodeo,” Alex reassures her. “I did this, like, all the time in my athletic training days.”
“That’s not important today. What’s important is the Lightning versus the Thunder,” Amy reinforces.
“Seriously? Lightning versus Thunder? Lightning and Thunder are the opposing teams?” Alex asks, incredulously.
“It’s a youth league. I’m not handing out merchandising contracts. Can we please focus on the game at hand? My game, with my team, where I need you to pay excellent attention to assists and attempts. Please. Please pay attention,” Amy begs.
“Oh my god, Coach Amy, I’ll handle it. If I didn’t get such an excellent sleep a few nights ago, I’d probably be much more irritable but I’ll be the bigger man, nay, WOMAN here,” Alex boasts.
“I cannot stress this enough: I. Do not. Care. Please, take my stats and do not ask any of my players who their favorite feminist is,” Amy says.
Amy makes her switch seats at the first foul of the game. She has to sit Becky in between her and Alex because Alex starts making puns around the opposing player’s names. Amy’s completely into the match after that. Alex finds Amy’s In-Charge voice charming, even though she’s overusing the phrase “post up.” Amy looks calmly authoritative, consulting with Becky when she wants to switch players around in the zone. Becky nods, remains supportive.
Amy’s team, the Lightning (for the record), win by a nail-biting two baskets. Alex only misses five assists but Amy glosses over it. She’s too busy congratulating the girls.
A few parents come up to speak to Amy, to thank her for allowing all the girls to have some playing share in the match. Amy’s humble, appreciative. Alex tries to meet Amy’s eyes when they’re doing a final sweep for trash before the next team takes the court, but Amy won’t let it happen. Becky sees, intercepts Alex and shakes her head.
“She’s too good for her own good,” she says privately to Alex.
“Psh, seriously. What are we going to do with her?” Alex jests.
“She’ll fetch us a lot of camels on the silk road. Look at those strong shoulders,” Becky says, louder.
Amy’s oblivious, lifting up the chairs by their warm metal back rests to check under them for any lost articles.
“Her sturdy hips guarantee ample offspring for many generations,” Alex narrates. Amy turns to them, wide-eyed.
“Sorry?” She hasn’t been paying attention.
“Ineffable!” Alex exclaims.
Amy shoulders her bag from its hidden spot under her chair. She shakes hands with the next coach as they pass. Becky decides to ride home with them, persuades them to call ahead for take-out pizza before they get on the metro. The pie’s still hot when they climb the three flights to Amy and Alex’s place.
“You like House Hunters International?” Alex checks with Becky as she flips on the cable.
“Yeah, sure,” Becky agrees.
She perches on the floor cushion she’s pulled up under the coffee table. They’re all cramped around it, Amy and Alex next to each other on the couch. Becky cuts into her slice first; she’s the first to place a bet on which house the affluent couple will pick.
And she’s right. Becky heads home after two more episodes because Amy’s got to get ready to babysit. Amy picks up their cups and plates, straightens up the countertops and wraps the leftover pizza. Alex tags around with her, following Amy from kitchen to living room and back again. She doesn’t offer to do anything, but it doesn’t bother Amy.
“You know, Christie asks a lot of you,” Alex supplies.
“She’s my employer. Doesn’t your employer ask a lot from you too?” Amy asks, smart-assed.
She’s washing dishes in the sink. Alex leans her lower back against the counter.
“Well yeah. But they don’t ask me to come in on Saturday night,” Alex says. “After I’ve already been working all week.”
“They need a break,” Amy says, referring to the couple who has employed her as a nanny since she graduated. She loves her job, loves caring for the girls she’s responsible for.
“From what? You’re the one always looking after her kids,” Alex defends.
Alex takes the last swig of diet soda from her glass and places the empty thing in the sink. Amy washes it without making a fuss.
“At twenty dollars an hour, I’ll watch her kids anytime,” Amy reasons.
She shuts off the faucet. Alex scoffs at her.
“Will you at least come meet me at this theater party tonight?” Alex offers.
“I don’t know. I’m gonna be so tired,” Amy starts to weasel out of it.
“Abby invited me. She’s, you know, working at the Square Playhouse,” Alex explains, nonchalant.
“Cool,” Amy dismisses.
“Think about it,” Alex insists.
Amy gets to Christie’s house just in time to intercept a Reece tantrum. The rest of the night is a blur of dress up and feeding them dinner and putting them into bed after five episodes of Tinkerbell. Amy’s nodding off on their couch when Alex texts her.
“Just got here. Tons of girls. Pls come!” Alex’s message reads.
Amy sips her Coke, trying to stay awake. She finds a bottle of nail polish and gives herself a quick pedicure before Christie and her husband return, half-soused, and hand Amy two crisp one hundred dollar bills.
Amy decides she might as well. She gets off at the Kings station like Alex directs. She tries not to make eye contact with anyone until she has to knock on the door of the walk-up. Abby answers. It’s her place, of course she would.
She takes Amy into an easy hug. They’ve known each other on the fringe for so long, never really becoming close. But since they finished school, since Alex finished school, this past spring, Abby’s been around more. Catching movies with Alex. Helping Alex move furniture or driving Alex to Target.
“How the hell are ya?” Abby pats Amy’s shoulders.
Amy’s wearing her grey hoodie, feeling less at ease being stared at by Abby’s glowing eyes.
“Not bad. No complaints!” Amy insists. Abby leads her in.
“Drinks in the kitchen, smokes on the balcony. Make yourself at home,” Abby lilts over the boppy music playing over the sound system.
Amy spots Alex perched on the couch. There are a lot of ladies here, yet she’s not hard to find.
“Thanks Ab,” Amy tries. Even she feels lame when it slips out. Abby chuckles, understands.
“Aight, aight,” she squeezes Amy’s shoulders as she slithers by.
Amy comes right up to Alex, who crooks her arm around Amy’s midsection, pulling her into a side hug and letting her forehead fall on Amy’s oblique. Amy’s arm drapes over Alex’s shoulders.
“Hey rooms,” Alex says, mellow.
“Hey,”
“How are the kids?”
“Exhausting,” Amy sighs. “But always good,” Amy smiles.
Alex shifts over in her armchair, lets Amy perch on the arm itself. Abby’s got a blue-jean slip cover on the thing.
“I’m drinking scotch,” Alex says, smoothes her voice.
Amy gives her an arched look.
“Why?”
“To sip,” Alex demonstrates. Amy purses her lips. Downers, most likely. “Some?” Alex offers.
“Let’s go out for beer instead. Better yet, let’s get beer and go home,” Amy ducks to mutter it in Alex’s ear, just a shave below the music.
The women on the couch aren’t paying them any mind. They’re scrolling through the iPod plugged into the stereo.
“You think Abby would come?” Alex asks, a hollowness to her expression.
“Probably not. S’her house,” Amy explains.
Abby comes in from the porch just then, someone calling dibs on a beer pong game outside.
“I can find you beer,” Alex says.
With a spurt of sudden energy, she drags Amy up and into the kitchen. Alex sidles up to Abby, dons the rouse of a dramatic embrace.
“Sup?” Abby says.
She’s remaining calm. Amy can see through it though, that whipped tenacity. It’s Abby’s weakness: Alex.
“Can Amy have a beer?” Alex asks, sweetly.
“Yeah, sure,” Abby agrees.
She opens the crummy fridge and hands Amy a lukewarm can. Amy cracks it open, more to avoid watching Alex hang off of Abby.
“What’s up outside?” Alex probes.
“Oh, you know, general idiocy,” Abby articulates.
The whole thing feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Amy’s used to Alex’s dreary eyes in the early morning, but it’s different now, seeing her so misleadingly loose.
“You’re just so above that,” Alex mocks.
There’s a thick, lazy sarcasm to her voice. Amy takes a big swig, feeling obligated.
“Yeah. I’m a high-functioning idiot. One who maintains an illusion of control,” Abby chances.
She delivers like she’s rehearsed, like there’s something disingenuous about her.
“And that’s why you lost in beer pong?” Alex asks rhetorically.
“Exactly,” Abby concedes. “I mean, in like, three turns.” She hangs her head.
Alex looks like she wants to pull her back into a hug, but she settles on a gentle pat to the shoulder.
“I’m sure it was tough competition,” Amy tries to butt in.
“Just the worst. Poor sports, too. Taunting, gloating. Just awful,” Abby plays.
“You need a better partner, partner,” Alex offers. She means herself.
“Next round,” Abby dismisses. Amy watches the joy drain from Alex’s face. It’s prudent, like a wave retreating from the shore.
“Sure,” Alex whimpers.
Abby excuses herself to socialize with someone else, and then Alex wants to leave. Amy doesn’t get much further into that beer. She leaves it on the countertop unattended.
Luckily, Alex doesn’t mention booze once more on the way home. They ride the metro together, and Amy even lets Alex’s forehead fall sideways onto her shoulder. It’s the first night Amy feels like she really needs to get her coat out, put scarves and gloves back into her wardrobe. The wind is biting, but it works to Amy’s advantage. Alex picks up her feet with a precise attention that only the chill could bring, like nature’s elements crack the pharmaceutical haze.
Amy marches Alex into the elevator of their building. Even though it’s old and scary, Alex doesn’t freak out like she usually does. She’s complacent; Amy feels brave.
“Why do you like Abby?” Amy blurts.
Alex blinks slowly.
“She’s an amazing person,” Alex delivers.
“How so?” Amy presses.
The cab stops at their floor. Amy gets her keys ready, digs them out of her messenger bag. Alex is silent, watching Amy jimmy the lock. Alex follows her in, deadbolts the door behind them.
“Her drive for success. How she can read a script once and bring her part to life,” Alex says, facing the door.
Amy hums. She drops her bag where she kicks off her shoes, folding her phone into her pocket. Alex follows into the kitchen where Amy starts making macaroni on the stovetop.
“I like how accepting she is,” Alex continues. Amy sets the water to boil.
“Of what?”
“Just being around other people. How she attracts a diverse group,” Alex says.
“You weren’t even talking to anyone when I got there,” Amy observes.
She doesn’t mean to hurt Alex, but it looks like it stings.
“It was a lull. It was, just, you know, one of those chill atmospheres,” Alex explains.
Amy turns up the burner, wants to get on with it.
“Don’t let her influence you to, whatever,” Amy mutters.
“I know,” Alex insists.
Amy can’t help but notice how she widens her eyes on purpose. Amy doesn’t mean to scold, to question Alex’s discretion.
“She’s cool, but, I mean,” Amy trails off. She has a bad habit of biting back her tongue.
“She doesn’t know what she wants,” Alex whispers.
“How do you know that?” Amy checks.
The water starts to boil. Amy pours in the macaroni.
“She, like, won’t freaking act,” Alex insists.
“Act on what?” Amy feels like an advocate, but lost.
“Never mind,” Alex dismisses. She juts away from the stove. “Sorry it was a lame party,” Alex apologizes.
“I had fun,” Amy says. Alex scoffs, rolls her eyes. “I did,” Amy reinforces.
They eat macaroni on the couch, sharing one huge serving bowl with two utensils—a fork for Alex and a spoon for Amy.
When Amy’s locking the front door, as she always does, Alex stalls in the dark living room. Amy can’t see her, but she knows she’s there, knows the lilt of Alex’s sincere voice.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” Alex mumbles.
Amy can’t calibrate their bodies in the empty space, can’t tell where Alex stands in the darkness. The sound of her voice bounces hopelessly against the thin apartment walls.
“Anytime,” Amy lobs into the atmosphere.
Alex is beside her embarking down the hallway. She splays a hand between Amy’s shoulder blades, rubs her back for a moment. When Amy falls asleep, there’s lingering warmth there that reminds Amy of her spine. How it is composed of tiny bones and cords, only viable when they communicate, when they work in sync. It reminds her of her mouth, the teeth inside that feel like rejected vertebrae, forced to settle their calcium deposits into her curved, cramped smile. When Amy’s drifting to sleep, she imagines pressing her lips to vertebrae, waxes on the poetic disposition of the body’s chemistry, the amalgamation of the same matter into woefully distant caverns.