On Sundays, Jeanine and I got ready for games together. My apartment had the smaller bathroom, but in my bedroom was a big vanity mirror where we could smear on makeup, outline our lips and eyes with slick crayons, and watch our faces brighten and sharpen without bumping elbows. These were the conditions under which we worked, piling on products until we looked like we were supposed to, until we looked like Jills.
It was better to get ready together. Alone, I was more aware of the shakiness of my hands and the churn in my stomach. I loved the fear, I cherished it, but I wanted to share it with someone.
You could fall in love with someone that way; you could fall in love with yourself, with what you were about to do, by sharing the fear and knowing you were going to do it anyway. But today, the only face in the mirror was mine.
It was eleven, four hours to kickoff. I grabbed my phone. The screen turned grainy and slick from the foundation on my fingers as I typed. I sent Jeanine a picture of my hair. Do you see this volume? The hair gods are with me today. I squeezed into my tights and typed again: Are you at your place? Getting a ride from Bobby? Have you been struck dumb by post-coital bliss? I waited for the blue dots indicating she was typing a reply. My body was alight with pre-game adrenaline, energy searching for an emotion as an outletβannoyance, panic, anticipation, crazed and ecstatic glee.
I stalled as long as I could, checking the contents of my duffel for the third time, waiting for her to respond. After five minutes, there was nothing to do but leave. Bobby wasβwell, I hesitated to call him her boyfriend.
