Perfected By Girls
Copyright 2012 Alfred C. Martino
Smashwords Edition
Coles Street Publishing
Union City, New Jersey
Copyright © 2012 by Alfred C. Martino
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Coles Street Publishing, 1700 Manhattan Avenue, Union City, New Jersey 07087.
www.AlfredMartino.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data
Martino, Alfred C.
Perfected By Girls / by Alfred C.
Martino.
p. cm.
Summary: Melinda Radford, the lone girl on her
high school wrestling team, grapples family and school pressures for
the opportunity to compete in a varsity match, something no girl in
school history has ever done.[1. Wrestling-Fiction. 2. Family
problems-Fiction. 3. Friendship-Fiction. 4. Competition
(Psychology)-Fiction. 5. Michigan-Fiction.] I. Title. [Fic]- dc22
2011934850
ISBN 978-1-59316-600-7
Text
set in Sabon
Text and Cover Designed by Jenn Martino Design Edited
by Karen Grove
First
edition ACEGHFDB
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to lend a sense of realism to the story. Any resemblance to any organization, event, or actual person, living or dead, is unintentional.
For Mom
Acknowledgments
In hindsight, perhaps it’s not surprising that I’d write a novel centered on girls’ amateur wrestling. In the mid 1980s, two of my cousins, Kari and Veda, competed admirably—and successfully—on the boys’ wrestling teams of their respective New Jersey hometowns of Roselle Park and Tewksbury. At the time, a female amateur wrestler was an anomaly. Today it is most certainly not, as girls (and women) compete at every level of wrestling, including the Olympics. It is a welcomed development in our sport.
During my research for Perfected By Girls, I had the opportunity to speak with dozens of former and current female wrestlers about the obstacles that they had to overcome in order to compete, their thoughts on being teammates with and opponents of boys, and, ultimately, what the sport meant to them. Some were kind enough to offer comments on the book cover as it was in development, as well. Their insight helped me a great deal. Though I’m sure I’ll forget a few, and appologize if I do, I’d like to thank Leigh James, Joey Miller, Rowan Pilger, Stephanie Marino, Uilani Kaneao, Jennah Brennan, Amanda Ayotte, Arial Fitzner, Alaura Seidl, Kailee Ball, Aubrae Putnam, Michele Levy, Amy Granton, Amy Fazackerley, Kiki Lane, and a special thanks to Danielle Hobeika.
Most importantly, I am indebted to Kayla Percy, the other member of our two-person writing group and a fine novelist herself; Karen Grove, masterful editor for all three of my novels; Alexes R., who generously took time from her ice hockey schedule to critique the novel; Elizabeth, for her support; my sister, Jenn, for her fine design work; and Alisa Weberman, publisher at Coles Street Publishing, for having the wisdom to publish Perfected By Girls.
Alfred C. Martino
July 2011
Chapter 1
Sometimes I wish I were a guy.
I know that sounds stupid, probably ridiculously stupid—my best friend, Jade, would certainly say it does. So, before word gets out at Ashton High that I might be considering “augmentation” to my south-of-the-border region, let me clarify: I wish I could be like a guy.
I’m envious of them. Everything about guys—the things they do and the way they do them, from irrationally impulsive to single-mindedly determined, and all shades in between—seems to originate from their bodies. It’s like watching one of those animal shows where a lion is sprawled out lazily on the savanna, then the moment strikes and he takes off, his muscular body charging through the grassy plains, mane swaying, to knock the snot out of some hyena.
I envy guys’ muscles and the arrogance those muscles give them. I envy that it seems like they don’t need to do anything special to be sturdy and broad. They don’t have to flex. Or pose. Or strut. It just happens. When they move; when they don’t move. They can just be, and yet it’s impossible to ignore how their bodies are so…
I’m not sure what the right word is.
Intimidating, I suppose.
Or powerful.
Alive, maybe.
Yeah… Sometimes I really wish I could be like a guy.
Chapter 2
“Oh…my…God...”
Jade is definitely the excitable type. Right now she’s squeezing my arm and squealing in my ear in one of those ways where I’m concerned she may not be able to keep her thoughts discreetly contained in her head. It probably won’t matter anyway, given that we’re sitting among my JV wrestling teammates at the top row of our standing-room-only high school gymnasium bleachers, looking down on hundreds of classmates and teachers, parents and neighbors, shouting and clapping for the pride of Ashton, Michigan: our state-ranked varsity team.
Jade leans in. “Did you hear me?”
We’ve been sister-tight since we terrorized Brownies Troop 77 together, like, eight years ago. She comes to every wrestling match and even watches the action on the mat as intently as I do, though usually for much less sports-related reasons.
“Do you see?” She’s downright giddy.
I roll my eyes.
It’s the third period of the 170-pound match. Trey Fignorelli, our team co-captain (my brother, Cole, is the other) and three-year letter winner, just hit a standing switch that took him and his South Lyon opponent out-of-bounds.
“No points,” the referee shouts. “Same way.”
Trey, reddish floppy hair sprouting from under his headgear, picks himself up and shakes out his hands. The South Lyon wrestler stands up, as well.
That’s when Jade blurts into my ear, “Are you even looking?”
I am. At Trey.
He’s tired. He always shakes out his hands between drills near the end of practice. It’s his little quirk. Why I notice these things, I’m not sure. But I do.
I take a gulp from my water bottle. I’m still in my singlet and warm-ups. My sweat isn’t totally dry. Bet I’m a bit smelly, too. Our JV team won, but I didn’t. I wrestled in one of the “exhibition” matches after the regular lineup was done. Got my clock cleaned. I don’t think my opponent was too thrilled to be wrestling a girl, so he dispensed with any semblance of chivalry and took me down with a double-leg, then cross-faced me, without any respect for my button nose, into a far-side cradle. I was behind 5–0 before my brain unscrambled. I did have an escape in the second period—for what it was worth (very little)—but then gave up another takedown in the third for a 7–1 shellacking.
I glance at the clock. Fifty-four seconds left; Trey’s up 4–2. But that’s not what Jade sees.
“He’s huge,” she says, giggling.
I purse my lips but don’t look at her—that’ll just egg her on.
“I know you notice,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’m watching my teammate.”
Jade laughs. “Teammate?”
“Yeah,” I say, without any conviction whatsoever.
“Mel,” she says, “if it wasn’t for Cole, Trey wouldn’t even know your name.”
“Yeah, well—” I start to say, but I know she’s right.
Trey kneels down at the center circle, taking a last deep breath before he sets himself in the down position. His opponent is facing the South Lyon coach, who sits on a folding chair at the corner of the mat.
“Gotta turn him,” the coach shouts. “Off the whistle, grab an ankle and Turk. Then put in the half.”
Reasonable, but rather obvious, suggestions.
When the South Lyon wrestler turns around, Jade’s distraction is more than apparent. His white singlet with a gold-colored band running diagonal across his chest, at just the right angle, seems as sheer as satin and, for a moment, it’s as if he’s standing on the mat wearing only red wrestling shoes, a yellow sash, and an abundantly filled jockstrap.
Jade squeezes my arm harder and practically howls. I glance around us. Thankfully, the crowd’s cheering has begun to swell in anticipation of the referee’s whistle and nobody seems to notice.
Ashton’s a wrestling town, has been for decades—that’s what our legendary Coach Hillman reminds us of in practice every day. And if he didn’t, the long list of state champions and place-winners displayed prominently in our wrestling room would certainly hammer the idea home. Ashton fans know what they’re seeing. They’re seeing their co-captain, less than a minute away from securing an early December season-opening team victory, in the bottom position in the center circle, while his opponent waits for the referee to motion him on top.
“Mel—” Jade says.
I shush her.
“Don’t shush me.”
“Watch the wrestling,” I say, gesturing down toward the mat.
Jade purses her lips and goes into pissy mode, pulling a cell phone from her handbag.
“I’ll just check my messages,” she says in an annoying way. “Why don’t you check yours? Oh, that’s right, you can’t.”
I offer my best bitter smile. Mom put the kibosh on my texting and calling when I went a little overboard one month (actually, two) last summer. So now I’m practically the only person at Ashton High who doesn’t have a cell phone.
“Just watch,” I say to Jade.
The referee blows the whistle and the third period continues. Trey holds his base for the first few seconds, arms braced against the mat, triceps totally bulging. The South Lyon wrestler grabs a near ankle and drives Trey down to the mat. Then he forces in a half nelson.
Ashton fans yell, “Look away! Look away!”
Trey manages to get to an elbow, but he’s obviously tired. I knew it. Now, both sides of the gymnasium are really rocking.
It’s as if the South Lyon wrestler wants to wrench Trey’s arm out of his shoulder more than try to turn him to his back. He’s driving as hard as he can, while Trey fights to get back to his base. The willpower from both guys is amazing—one using every bit of his energy and strength to pull the upset, the other enduring pain and fatigue to hold off the challenge.
As the clock ticks down, I imagine myself in Trey’s place and wonder: In front of a packed home crowd, could I be as tough and gritty as I’d need to be to get the win? My stomach tightens. I doubt it. I don’t know if it’s a girl–guy thing. Maybe it is. Maybe if I had ripped arms and broad shoulders and thick quads that stretched out my singlet… Maybe.
“Come on, Trey!” Jade shouts.
She’s doing her best impression of an interested fan, though I know she’s more concerned about whether we’re going to hang out later tonight than Ashton winning this dual meet.
“Get to a base,” I say.
I’m surprised to hear my own voice. I’m not one of those wrestlers who cheers on every teammate. I’m usually silent. I like to analyze what’s happening on the mat, wondering why a takedown setup worked, or which wrestler had better balance in a certain position. My dad told me once that I’d make a good coach someday. I’d like to make a good wrestler first.
I watch Trey get to his hands and knees.
“Crank down on the arm!”
It’s my voice again, but this time it’s loud and comes at a lull in the crowd’s cheering, so my words are as clear as a boat horn on Whitmore Lake.
Trey suddenly raises his body a little, then cranks down on his opponent’s arm. The South Lyon wrestler falls to his hip, allowing Trey to step over smoothly for the reversal.
I can feel the know-it-all grin on my lips. A few Ashton fans glance over their shoulders and nod their approval, though none of my JV teammates do. That’s fine. They probably figure I only know this stuff from being around my brother. Or, maybe, they just don’t want to admit a girl can have more wrestling smarts than them.
Back on the mat, Trey rides his opponent for the last half minute of the period, jumps to his feet at the buzzer, then has his arm raised in victory.
I still feel flush, sitting straight up with my chest puffed out. I’m sure people are listening to hear what I’ll shout during the 182-pound match.
“Uh…hate
to disappoint you,” Jade says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “but
no one’s waiting for your next moment of brilliance.”
I roll
my eyes to deflect her snarkiness, and then finish the rest of the
cheese sandwich that I hadn’t eaten after weigh-ins.
Soon enough, the dual meet is over. The Ashton varsity has started the season with an important, but expected, victory. Jade and I stand, then wait for fans to move down the bleacher steps. It takes a few minutes.
“Hey,” Jade says to me. “Good job earlier.”
“With what?”
“Your match.”
“I got my butt handed to me.”
“Maybe,” Jade says. “But you had a nice escape in the second period.” She steps down a row, then another.
“You saw that?” I say, following her. I think she’s smiling. “I figured you’d be too busy watching other things.”
“Mel, my darlin’, I promised you over the summer I’d make it to every one of your JV matches and pay attention. I’m keeping that promise.”
Well, that’s kind of sweet.
“Besides, I’m waiting,” she says.
“Waiting?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
She gestures down to the mat.
“And?”
“You, the first chick to wrestle varsity for Ashton,” she says. “And I’ll be able to say, ‘I knew her when she was regular ol’ Melinda Radford.’”
I can’t tell if Jade’s teasing me or she’s serious. Either way, our conversation makes me majorly uneasy. I look around to see if anyone’s heard what we’re talking about. They’d probably think Jade is out of her mind.
“Things are fine the way they are,” I say.
“Fine the way they are?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“You don’t ever think about it?”
“No,” I insist.
“Liar.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t.” But maybe I don’t sound very convincing.
“What about someday?” Jade says.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, someday.”
“Or sooner.”
“Jade...”
“Suit yourself,” she says, with a shrug.
Then she grabs my hand and we hurry down to the bottom row. “Now, let’s go find Trey and Cole,” she says, her almond eyes sweeping across the gymnasium floor. “While they’re still in their wrestling outfits.”
“Outfits?” I say, incredulous. “They’re called singlets, Jade. Singlets.”
But she’s not listening.
Chapter 3
Jade dives onto my bed with this week’s People magazine, sweeping the pages to check out the latest Hollywood breakup, or starlet arrest, or celebrity rehab. She’s enthralled.
“Keep it if you want,” I say.
“You’re finished?”
“You know I don’t read that trash.”
Jade gives me a look. “Excuse me, Einstein.”
“My mom got it,” I say, pulling off my warm-ups. I’m standing in my singlet. “There’s a dress in there she thought would look good on me.”
“Which one?”
“I forget.”
The magazine hits my butt. “Don’t BS me,” Jade says. “You know exactly which dress.” She jumps up and walks to my closet, pulling open the mirrored sliding door. “I’m the one who got you interested in fashion and now look—a black strapless dress from, hmm…” She turns out the label. “BCBG. And this? A Calvin Klein sleeveless.” She pushes aside more clothes. “Galliano… Another Galliano… Anne Klein, St. John Collection, DKNY…”
“Okay, okay,” I say.
“So?”
I sigh. “It was a BCBG black satin halter dress that hits here.” I show Jade—a few inches below the bottom of my singlet, just above my knee.
She says, “I’d totally look fabulous in it.”
I hear my brother coming down the second-floor hallway. Jade apparently does, too.
“Hey, Cole,” she calls, as he passes by. “Really great win tonight.” She gives him one of those gee-aren’t-you-wonderful looks, and I think her already-full lips suddenly become poutier.
Cole stops. He smiles at Jade and his eyes lock onto her as if she’s the only person in his world. It’s enough to make me sick.
“Oh, please,” I mutter. “Just go away.”
“I’ll be downstairs in five minutes, chubby,” he grunts at me. God, I really hate when he calls me fat. “Be ready,” he says.
“Do I have a choice?”
“What was the score of your match?” he says.
“Never mind.”
“Did ya even score a point?”
“Yes, actually,” I say.
“Whoa, break out the champagne,” Cole says, with a forced laugh. “Mel scored a whole point.”
I shake my head. “You’re such a supportive, loving brother.”
Cole grins, in that obnoxious way that only he can do, then looks toward Jade and, with a cowboy-on-a-white-steed wink, says, “Coming to my next match?”
Jade feigns being coy. “Maybe...”
“Leave us alone,” I interrupt and slam my bedroom door closed. It’s not like I haven’t seen Cole flirt with Jade before, he does it all the time. I know it doesn’t mean anything (and it better not). I’m just not in the mood to see it right now.
Jade turns to me. “Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, all these gorgeous clothes.”
I pull the straps of my singlet off my shoulders, then roll it past my underwear and down my legs.
“Whoa, Mel…”
“You better not say I’m chubby.”
“No, you’re way muscular,” Jade says. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or busting on me. “Starting to look like that chick.” She gestures toward the poster on my wall.
“I wish,” I say. “That chick is Tricia Saunders. She’s, like, the best female amateur wrestler from the US, ever.”
“Yeah, yeah… You’ve told me this a million times. And a million times, I’ve told you, ‘whatever’.”
“Not ‘whatever’,” I say. “Four-time world champ, eleven-time national champ. Never lost to another American female wrestler. Not once. She, my dear Jade, was a bitch in a singlet.”
She looks at me, unimpressed.
“Anyway,” she says, “soon you’re not going to fit in these dresses anymore. It’d be a shame to have to get rid of them. Guess I’ll have to be the benevolent friend and take them off your hands.”
“Benevolent,” I say. “That’s an SAT word. I’m surprised you knew how to use it properly in a sentence.”
Jade flares her nostrils. “Thanks. Let me try it again. That South Lyon wrestler wasn’t very benevolent when he wiped the mat with you today.”
Then she gives me the fakest of smiles, and we both laugh.
While Jade sifts through my closet for more of what she hopes will be hand-me-downs, I pull out a T-shirt, long-sleeved shirt, two pairs of sweatpants, and a hooded sweatshirt from my drawer. Soon, I have them all on.
“Hey, are we still getting a mani-pedi tomorrow?” Jade asks.
“Yep,” I say.
“Good, my nail polish is chipping.”
I look at my own. My nails are a mess. “I’ll be back in twenty-five minutes,” I say, before leaving my bedroom.
“Take your time,” Jade says. “There’s no way I’m going home.”
Then she gives me a look that I know all too well. Her father must be in one of his moods. It doesn’t help that her mother hasn’t been around for years. We never talk about that. Jade doesn’t like when I feel sorry for her. But I do anyway.
Cole and I run almost every night. After practice. After matches. On Sundays. He never lets me off the hook, no matter how I feel or whether I want to or not. He waits in the laundry room off the kitchen, where we keep our running shoes. When mine are on, he tells me where we’re going. He’s got four routes. One is hilly. Another is long and mostly straight. The other two are a combination.
Together, without talking, we walk from the back of the house down the driveway, stretching along the way. Once we get to the street, Cole takes off sprinting. After he’s a quarter mile or so down the road, he stops and bounces on his toes until I catch up. It’s the same every time we run.
“Keep going,” I want to tell him. “I’ll make it home.”
He doesn’t need to make sure I’m all right every step of the way. I’m fine. I mean, not completely—my legs feel totally heavy and I’m pretty sure my period’s going to start tomorrow or the next day. But it’s not like something’s going to happen to me running—or more accurately, slogging—a couple of miles.
But I know he’ll never leave me behind. And not because of some sense of brotherly love. I’m pretty sure it was a parental edict. “Look out for Mel,” Dad probably said. “She’s your sister, and a teammate.” I’ll bet Cole laughed at that. There’s no way in the world he considers me a teammate. It’s clear I’m not one of the guys.
As I approach my brother, I do my best to pick up the pace. The moment I’m close, he sprints away again.
A small part of me wishes he’d wait. I could use the company. We wouldn’t have to talk or anything (like he’d ever want to), we could just run side by side in silence. But, the truth is, I really don’t mind facing this drudgery by myself. It allows plenty of time for thoughts to rattle around in my head, if sometimes obsessively.
Like, properly capturing the far knee when finishing off a hi-crotch…
(Working on it.)
Or making it through the season without a teammate or opponent “accidentally” copping a feel…
(Unlikely.)
Or drilling with Brook Evans in practice, who smells as good with a little sweat on him as he looks wearing athletic shorts and a tight T-shirt…
(Very, very distracting.)
I push through the back door into our laundry room, leaving my brother to run a few more miles. I bend down to untie my running shoes, then I pull off both pairs of sweatpants, sweatshirt, long-sleeved shirt, and T-shirt. My mom comes in from the kitchen.
“Put whatever you need washed in the wicker basket,” she says.
I’m standing in my underwear and sports bra, sweating. Not a lot, but enough. I notice Mom eye me up and down.
“What?” I say, though I know what she’s thinking. Probably doesn’t like that she can count each of my ribs, or that my skin looks as thin as a silk top, or that I’d asked her to buy me a few bras—a size smaller than usual. “Mom, my ribs seem like they’re showing because I just got done running,” I say, though I know that makes no sense at all.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“And I probably look a little thin because I’m sweaty.” Which makes even less sense.
“Not a word,” she says.
I put my hands on my waist and frown. “I needed new bras, mine were totally old. I wanted a smaller size because”—I hold my boobs—“these get in the way. You try wrestling with them.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s a problem,” Mom says. She pulls a bath towel from a shelf and puts it over my shoulders. “Jade’s staying over?”
“Yeah.”
“If you two want something to eat, let me know. Now, get upstairs, my little warrior princess, before you catch a chill.”
Chapter 4
I’m in deep on the double-leg. Head on the outside of the hip. Arms around my teammate’s legs, hands on his calves.
But I’m on my knees, and I have that fraction of a second to realize I’m going to pay for it big time. Mark Wexler doesn’t care that he’s one weight class heavier than me. He doesn’t care that he’s a junior and I’m a sophomore. And, most of all, I don’t think he’s particularly pleased that a girl’s on the team.
So he kicks his legs back and crashes all of his weight on me—it’s a nasty sprawl. I hear him grunting. He’s definitely trying to make this as painful for me as possible. If this was the beginning of practice I might make a real effort to hold on, improve my position, and look to finish off the takedown. But it’s late, and I’m wiped out, and my arms are practically useless. I hate the feeling of giving in. But I know that’s what I’m doing, just holding on until the minute-long shot is over so I can take a seat to the side and catch my breath. It’s okay, I tell myself. There’ll be other shots, other drills, other practices.
Mark doesn’t let up. He jams my head—my face, really—against the mat with his hand. When this indignity sparks a mild anger inside me, I raise my head. And that’s when Mark cross-faces me, forcing the bony part of his forearm against my nose, then my eye socket, as a rather nasty way to move my head from his hip. I can taste blood. Literally. Finally, Mark spins behind easily for the takedown.
“Time!” Jim Geiger calls out from the middle of the room. It’s his first season as Ashton’s assistant coach. Cole says he’s a Pennsylvania AAA state champ from a few years back, which isn’t surprising since he definitely knows how to run a tough practice. “Next group on the mats,” he says. Then, after a moment, he blows the whistle to start the next shot.
I find the nearest wall and slide down. I just got schooled in a major way. My neck aches and my nose is sore. Mark stands not far from me. He still has this intense look on his face. He’s ready for more.
I’m not.
Instead, I look for my brother on the “champions” mat—reserved for varsity starters and contenders—at the front of the practice room. Cole doesn’t notice me. I doubt he even cares what happens on the adjacent “runners-up” mat, where the rest of us toil. Coach Hillman’s the same. He spends all of practice watching the varsity. Which, on a day like today, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least on the runners-up mat, I can wrestle like garbage in anonymity.
“Time!” Coach Geiger calls. “Next group. Gotta push yourselves, Ashton.”
I pick myself up, secure my headgear, brush strands of hair from my eyes, and step back onto the mat. Mark crouches in his stance; I do the same. Right foot forward, hands in front, head up.
Off the whistle, I circle. Mark, however, comes right at me, forcing a tie-up. It’s not a position I want to be in. But it’s too late. He’s already captured my arm with an underhook, and has my other wrist. I know what’s going to happen even before it does. He sweeps my legs out and crashes me to the mat, then covers on top.
“Heard the cheer squad has an open spot,” he says in my ear.
Oh, that pisses me off.
I start to work off my stomach. I need to get my hips under me. But Mark presses every ounce of his 120 or so pounds down on me. By the time I realize he’s reached under my armpit, he’s already cupped the back of my head with his hand. And by the time I realize that, he’s already out to the side, grinding my face into the mat. And by the time I think to look away—which I shouldn’t even have to think about—he’s already circling with the half, prying my arm over my head and wrenching my shoulder from its socket.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
But I don’t. I fight it. And I fight Mark. As best I can. But he doesn’t let up, putting me to my back. I try to bridge, but can’t. I try to turn and slip my arm through, but can’t. Then he goes chest to chest and squeezes.
“Time,” Coach Geiger calls out.
Mark pushes off of me.
As the second pairs of wrestlers find space on the mats, I struggle to my feet. My shoulder’s killing me. The end of practice can’t come soon enough. Again, I slump against a wall. I have no idea why I let Mark tie up my arms. What’d I expect to happen?
I’m frustrated. Bruised. And exhausted.
Then I hear Coach Hillman’s gravelly voice. “Hold on, Ashton,” he says, stepping onto the champions mat. “This has been a doggone awful practice.”
I look toward the front of the room. Coach Hillman never raises his voice, but he always makes it clear when he’s annoyed. I guess when you’ve been one of Michigan’s best coaches over the past twenty-four years and your teams have made it to the Division 2 finals eight times, capturing seven championships, you don’t need to yell.
“Take a look around you. Go on,” he says. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, this is the wrestling program’s legacy, your wrestling program…”
Every wrestler—varsity and JV—focuses on the practice room walls. On one are the names of the school’s district and region tournament champions; on another, the state place-winners. On the front wall, each of the school’s twenty-nine state champions is honored with a plaque, going back almost seventy years when the Ashton program first began.
“Now, we’ve got a week until the Christmas tournaments,” Coach Hillman says. “That’s not a lotta time. Let’s raise the intensity level for the last twenty minutes to where it should be for every practice. Next group of wrestlers get set.”
Pep talk over. Now I can go back to hanging my head.
“Wexler,” Coach Hillman says.
I look up. Why’s he calling Mark’s name?
“Find another partner,” Coach Hillman says. “One who’s going to push you.”
Oh, great...just great.
I’m alone in the girls’ locker room. As usual, winter track and basketball finished much earlier. It’s just one of the differences between wrestling and other sports. Coach Hillman works us long and hard. Every practice.
I lie down on one of the wood benches and close my eyes. Sometimes my mind wanders and I wonder if one of the school’s janitors is going to creep around the corner, pretending to be mopping the floor, so he can catch me in my underwear. But tonight, all I can think about is how lousy I was at practice. Dad says these things happen. That’s little comfort. An ass-kicking is an ass-kicking. I can’t just dismiss it. Worse, Coach Hillman was watching. The last thing I need is to give him any reason not to want a girl on the team.
I think about checking my weight. However, the scale is kept in the boys’ wrestling locker room and I just don’t have the energy. The school won’t put one in here. Parents, teachers, feminists, fat girls would all be up in arms, insisting that a scale promotes an unhealthy focus on body image, leading to bulimia, anorexia, binging, purging, etc. All I want to do is weigh myself.
The locker room door opens. I bolt upright and cover my bra with my hands.
“You in there?” It’s Cole.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Hold on a second,” I mutter, pulling my gym bag out from a locker.
“Now.”
I quickly slip on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, then carefully put my wrestling shoes and headgear on one side of my gym bag so that they don’t mess up the folded outfit and flats I wore to school on the other side.
“We gotta get home and run,” Cole says.
“I’m coming.”
I shake my head. I just want to get home and crawl into bed.
Chapter 5
Holiday music fills our house.
Last night it was Elvis Presley; tonight, it’s Dean Martin, an even older dead guy. Every year, Dad promises he’ll play something from a cool band that I like. But he never does.
I look at myself in my closet-door mirror. My black DKNY cocktail dress is flawless and smooth, as are the set of pearls and gold bracelets Mom allows me to wear on only the most important of occasions. But that’s not what catches my eye. It’s my shoulders. And arms. And upper chest. And calves. I turn sideways to look at my butt. I’m buff there, too. Not big, mind you, definitely not like Trey or Cole or any of the guys on the team. But the muscles I have are cut.
I close my bedroom door, then strike a double-biceps, bring-down-the-house pose. Not a whole lot of cleavage, but definitely hot.
“Mel, are you ready yet?” I hear Mom call out. “Reservations are at six thirty.”
“Gimme two seconds,” I say.
I pick up the shoes I had set aside for the evening and slip them on. They’re black Steve Madden leather four inch heels. Jade would just die if she saw them on me.
Cole pushes my door open. “Well, well, well,” he says. “Guess you’re not running.”
“Running? I’ll be lucky if I can walk in these,” I say. “Wrestling shoes, they ain’t.”
“You’re going to make up the miles tomorrow night,” he informs me.
“Whatever.” And when I see he hasn’t left, I say, “Don’t you have something better to do? Aww, you sad that it’s a holiday dinner for just me, Mom, and Grandma?”
He leans against my door. “Like I’d want to go.”
“I’ll tell Grandma you said hello,” I say, sarcastically.
He shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.”
“You’re one fine grandson.”
“Just watch what you eat, chubby.”
“Buh-bye,” I say, turning away and fastening the buckle on my other shoe. I don’t want him ruining the night before it’s even started.
Cole leaves, finally. I straighten up and take one more look in the mirror to make sure the reflection is perfection...
What’s that?
I step closer to the mirror. Then even closer. How did I not notice this? I touch my fingers to my cheek. Is that a bruise? If it’s not, it’s sure close. And my nose…was that scratch there earlier? And the mat burn over my eyebrow… Whoa, I look like I’ve been in a fight.
“We’ve got to go, Mel,” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs.
“Coming,” I say, wondering what in the world to do. The only answer is an obvious one: Call Jade.
Thankfully, she picks up the phone immediately. Her suggestions, however, are ideal for someone who has solitary access to a bathroom for the next hour. “Warm compresses and cucumber oils,” she insists.
“Jade,” I say, doing my best to control my nerves, “I’m going to dinner now.”
“Oh,” she says. “Then blush. Lots of blush. Tons of blush.”
I hang up the phone, put on my coat, and grab some blush—I’ll brush it on in the car. I race out of my bedroom and slide, like a dork, the moment my heels touch the wood floor of the hallway. I hit the banister hard.
“Everything all right?” Mom asks.
“Fine,” I manage. “Just peachy.”
I rub my leg. What’s another bruise or two? Lesson learned: All those agility drills we do in practice aren’t too helpful when you’re wearing high-heeled shoes.
Of course, it could’ve been worse. “Uh...sorry, Coach Hillman,” I imagine having to say. “I’m afraid I can’t finish the rest of the season because I wrenched my ankle trying to make it to dinner in pumps.”
Yeah, that’d go over well.
Chapter 6
Light snow is falling as Mom pulls our Lexus to the front entrance of Crystal Fog Country Club. The headlights shine on two valets dressed neatly in red wool overcoats and black leather gloves. One walks in front of the car to the driver’s side, while the other opens my door.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he says in a surprisingly deep voice. His cheeks are rosy and his smile is confident. He’s way cute, and just a couple of years older than me, I figure.
“Thank you very much,” I say.
“Be careful of your footing,” he says, offering me his hand. “It’s slippery out here.”
I step out of the car and stand up, then feign a wobble.
“I’ve got you,” he says, grabbing my arm with one hand and closing the door behind me with the other.
As I hold his arm, he walks me under the canopy leading to the club’s main doors. He’s got muscles, I can tell. And, even in the cold air, I can smell his cologne. I wonder if he’s a member’s son trying to make extra money during his college winter break. Finding that out is first on my must-do list before dinner is finished.
“Have a pleasant dinner, ladies,” he says, opening the door of the club for Mom and me.
“Oh, you, too.”
I wince. I can’t believe I just said that. How goofy. How yes-I’m-really-just-fifteen sounding. Couldn’t I have come up with something sophisticated? Or at least a little witty?
Mom gives me one of those looks. “Surprising how you’re suddenly very steady on your feet,” she says.
“Yes, quite surprising,” I reply.
That was kind of witty.
At the top of a short flight of stairs is the main foyer and, beyond that, the grand ballroom. Though I’ve been to the club many times before, I still marvel at the framed paintings, the ornate wood paneling along the ceiling, and the antique crystal chandelier lighting the foyer’s immense Oriental rug. Piano music plays in the lounge, while a fire crackles in the brick hearth to our right.
Even when I was younger, I looked forward to dressing up and having weeknight dinners or Sunday brunch with my grandmother at the club. It thrilled me to have my coat taken and hung in the cloakroom, and I loved the way the waiters would ask me directly what I’d be having, instead of looking to my mom and dad for my order.
A gentleman in a flawless charcoal suit steps up. “Ladies, may I relieve you of your coats?”
Mom and I oblige. Being treated special never gets old.
“Mrs. Drake is waiting in the lounge,” he says, with a nod.
I can see my grandmother through the open doors, sitting neatly and properly, setting down a goblet of red wine. When she notices us walking in, she smiles grandly. My steps quicken.
“Grandma,” I say, giving her a big hug.
“My little Melinda,” she says. She always calls me little.
“Sorry, we’re late,” Mom says, kissing her cheek.
“A few more minutes,” my grandmother says, “and I might have had to ask one of my fine gentlemen friends to take your place.”
I play along with her. “Really, Grandma? Which one?” I scan the crowded lounge and immediately notice a rather handsome older man who is dressed in a black suit with a bold red tie and sitting alone at the back of the room. “How about him?”
“My dear,” she says, matter-of-factly, “none of these men can keep up with your grandmother.”
I believe it. She’s been running Drake-Dreshner Industries for, like, forever. A market leader in Michigan and Ohio, she always tells me. Her husband died in a boating accident long before Cole and I were born. Because of that, I never thought of him as my grandfather; my grandmother was always enough for me. I love that she’s a big deal in business, even if I don’t know that much more of what her company does than its logo: DDI—Chemicals for Everyday Living. Sounds kind of cool, though.
I point to a brooch in the shape of a horse pinned to the shoulder of her suit jacket. “That’s pretty, Grandma.”
“Twenty-four-carat gold with six inlaid diamonds, half carat each,” she says. “It’ll be yours when I’m gone.”
“Really?”
She gives me a look.
“Don’t worry, it doesn’t have to be soon,” I say, with a wink.
A little while later, the maitre d’ leads us into the ballroom. My grandmother knows everyone. She shakes hands, or gives a cheek-kiss, to men and women at nearly every table we pass. I’m introduced as the brilliant, beautiful, and talented granddaughter who took time out of her busy high school schedule to have dinner with her grandmother. Of course, she doesn’t mention that I wrestle. (She hates that I do—she’s never even been to one of my matches.) But I do shake a lot of hands, and have ready answers to all of their questions.
I’m a sophomore at Ashton with a decent grade point average (sort of)…
My favorite classes are business and microeconomics (they’re not)…
Oh, yes, I’ve been waiting excitedly all week to have dinner with my grandmother (true)…
Sometimes I have to embellish a bit, but I certainly don’t mind the attention. And, who knows, maybe one of them will turn out to be the grandparent of the cute valet.
Mom and Grandma are deep in conversation, talking about things like revenue and product development, tax abatements and cash flow. Which is fine, frankly, because I’m engrossed in my appetizer. Of course, I don’t want to eat too much, but when a plate of escargots bathing in butter and garlic sauce is sitting in front of me, my defenses are weak. So, with each delicious forkful that I put in my mouth, I calculate how much extra running I’m going to have to do with Cole tomorrow night after practice. A quarter mile… Another quarter mile… Oh, that one’s definitely a half miler—
“Melinda?”
I look up from my plate. “What, Grandma?”
“I suggested to your mother that it might be beneficial for you to gain some experience this summer.”
“Experience? What kind of experience?”
“The work kind,” she says.
“I do work,” I say. “You know that. You’ve come by the mall to see me.”
“Ah, yes, Happy something-or-other.”
“Happy Holidaze,” I say.
“A positively, enlightening establishment,” she says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “No, I’m talking about more substantial work experience. An opportunity that few people your age get, my dear.”
A second waiter comes to clear our plates, then scoop crumbs from the tablecloth. When he steps away, I eye my grandmother suspiciously. “And…”
“I’d like you to start spending some time at DDI. Perhaps a few hours during your Christmas vacation, and whenever you get a day off from school,” she says. “You’d be a kind of intern.”
“An intern?”
“An intern whose grandmother owns the company,” she says. “But, yes, an intern nevertheless.”
I love my grandmother, but I really like it at Happy Holidaze, especially after the school year ends. Jade works as a receptionist at Nails Galore, across from the store, and we mostly spend our lunch hours flirting with the guys from Sport Mart. A few times last summer we even snuck beers that the guys kept in their cars. Raven, my manager, never noticed. Most of the time, she was buzzed anyway.
“I appreciate your generous offer, Grandma, but I’ve made a promise to Happy Holidaze.”
“So they’ll go out of business if you’re not there?”
I feign indignation. “Grandma, I’m an integral part of their product procurement team, a liaison to the merchandising division, and the primary customer service contact.”
“You’re a store clerk,” she says.
I grin. “And a darn good one.”
My grandmother purses her lips. She’s not mad, I can tell. Maybe just a little disappointed. Fortunately, the maitre d’ presents himself at just the perfect time. He asks if we’re ready for our entrees. Grandma tells him we are. And with a gesture toward the kitchen, a waiter brings out our dinners. Lobster tails for me. And even more running for tomorrow night.
“Besides, Grandma, what if I don’t like my boss?”
She smirks. “What if my intern is a slacker?” Touché. But then my grandmother puts a firm hand on my arm. “I want you to give this some thought,” she says, with unexpected seriousness. “It’s never too early to gain the work experience and business knowledge you would get at DDI. Can you make that commitment?”
Her expression surprises me. “Now?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “For me.”
I hesitate, then say, “Sure, Grandma, I’ll do anything for you.”
Just as quickly, her demeanor eases. Thank God. For a little while, I wonder what exactly I made a commitment to, but Grandma doesn’t bring it up again and the rest of the dinner goes swimmingly, so I don’t concern myself too much.
Instead, I listen as Mom tells us about a divorce case she’s handling at her law firm. It’s a well-known political couple in Ashton. She’s not supposed to disclose any of the sordid details about who did what to whom because it’s all hush-hush. But she does anyway, and the three of us have a huge laugh. Then, before dessert, I excuse myself from the table.
“I need to use the ladies room,” I say.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I feel fluttering in my stomach and my legs are the slightest bit unsteady. It would definitely be nice to have Jade here to give me a pep talk. Guess I’ll have to do it myself.
“He’s just a guy,” I say to my reflection. “He should be thankful I’ve got any interest in talking to him.”
That works to get my confidence up, for the moment. He’s not from Ashton, which is a good thing. I’m sick of the guys at school, since most of them think it’s weird that I wrestle. And, of course, there’s no way in a million years I’d date anyone on the team—not even Brook, cute as he is.
I take a few deep breaths.
“Remember, he’s only a guy.”
A pretty cute one, though.
And just when a hint of doubt creeps back into my mind, I shake my head and smile one of those smiles that tells me I’ve got it together and I’m not going to let anything—or anyone—get the best of me. I pull lip gloss from my handbag and spread it on my lips, check my mascara and eyeliner, then smooth my dress of any wrinkles. One last look.
“Totally hot.”
I leave the bathroom and walk into the main foyer where the well-dressed gentleman who took our coats has just greeted a couple of club members.
“Madame, how was your dinner?” he asks.
“Lovely,” I answer. I figure “lovely” is something one of the club’s ladies would say.
“May I assist you with anything?” he says.
“Why, yes,” I say. “I need to get a pair of winter gloves that my mother left in our car. But I seem to have forgotten the name of the valet.”
“Could that have been Stewart?” the gentleman says.
“The one without a mustache.”
“Yes, Stewart,” he says. “A fine, young man. Happens to be the golf pro’s son. Works here at night and on the weekends. An excellent member of our staff. Shall I have him bring your car around?”
“No, no,” I say. “Thank you, but I’ll just ask him myself.”
With a smile, I make my way down the stairs to the main entrance, feeling very full of myself for being so sly. I don’t have a lot of time to waste, especially since I forgot to pee (and, at this point, I really have to), so I push open the door and hope that Stewart’s alone.
Must be my lucky night. He’s standing by himself under the canopy. When I walk toward him, he gives me a curious look.
“Need something?” he asks.
“Work here often?” I say. Oh, geez, I can’t believe that’s what came out of my mouth.
“Why, you want my job?” he says, smartly.
I hug my arms and scrunch my shoulders to hold off the cold. “Does it look like I want your job?”
“Probably not.”
“Actually, do you know where I can get golf lessons?”
“Golf lessons?” he says. “I can help you with that.”
“Really?”
“I’m team captain at Grand Hills High.”
“What a coincidence,” I say.
“Wait a sec…” he says, suspiciously. “Did you know I played?”
“Now how would I know that?” I say. Then with a rush of boldness that surprises even me, I ask, “Got a pen on you?”
He reaches for one in his jacket. I pull the glove off his hand and write my phone number on his palm. “I gotta get back to dinner,” I say. “Don’t want to miss dessert.”
“Hey, are you going to tell me your name?”
“Melinda,” I say. “And you?”
“Stewart,” he says.
“Okay, Stewart.” I turn to go back inside.
“You play any sports?” he asks. “Kind of looks like you do.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, slightly suspiciously. “And, yeah, I wrestle.”
He looks at me funny. “Wrestle?”
I roll my eyes, knowing what he’s thinking. “No, not the mud or Jell-O kind.” I take a few steps toward the club entrance.
“Girls wrestle?”
“This one does.”
“Who?”
“Guys,” I say. “I’m on the team at Ashton High.”
“No joke?”
“No joke.”
“Is it weird wrestling guys?”
“Not really,” I say.
He nods. I smile and open the club door. But before I step in, he says, “You’re really on a guys’ wrestling team?”
I stop, take a deep breath (God, I’m tired of answering this question), then turn and say, “When you call, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Chapter 7
Owings is our family’s short-haired tabby. He spends most of the day in my bedroom, and most of that time under my bed—unless I’m getting ready for sleep. While I put away my heels, Owings strides over and rubs his head against my leg. I can hear him purring. I hang the cocktail dress neatly in my closet, then pick him up and cradle him in my arms.
“Did you miss me, boy?”
Owings nuzzles my face with his. He was originally Cole’s cat. Or at least Cole got to name him. Which is a shame because I would’ve come up with something cute, like Iggiddabooggi, or Iggy, for short. But Cole had just read a book about Olympic gold medalist Dan Gable, whose only loss in high school and college was in the NCAA finals of his senior year to this guy, Larry Owings. Cole figured anyone tough enough to beat Gable must’ve been special. Too bad for Cole, Owings found his place in my bedroom the moment we brought him home.
Owings takes his usual sleeping spot on a pillow beside me. I give Jade a call to see if she’s finished the homework for tomorrow. She hasn’t. So we (sort of) do it on the phone, while I tell her about dinner. Jade, however, is disgusted by snails and less than impressed with Stewart, even when I tell her he’s captain of the Grand Hills High golf team.
“You can do better,” Jade says. “You need to go out with a guy who plays something as tough as wrestling.”
“Wrestlers don’t play,” I remind her. “We wrestle.”
Besides, I tell her, if that’s going to be the criteria for whether or not I date, then I’m probably going to be sitting at home most of my life. She reminds me that’s already true. But her reaction to Stewart is nothing compared to the outburst when I make the mistake of telling her I might start working at DDI.
“Are you kidding me?” she yells. “You already have a job.”
“Relax, Jade,” I say. “It’ll just be a couple of hours when I’m free. Maybe one day after Christmas.”
“What about the summer?” Jade says. “Our summer.”
“The summer? Where’s that coming from?” I say. “I just told you—a few hours—like, when we have a day off from school.”
“Yeah, sure. You know your grandmother,” Jade says. “First, it’ll be just during Christmas break; by June, she’ll make it the whole freakin’ summer.”
“Trust me,” I say. “I’ll spend a half day at DDI. My grandma will be thrilled. Then she’ll drop the whole thing.”
But Jade’s not convinced. “Mel, I knew you shouldn’t have gone. I just knew it.”
“You mean, to dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Jade, I like having dinner with my grandma.”
“Why’d you two even talk about working for her?”
“She brought it up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, with a slight hesitation. “I guess she doesn’t think I’m serious enough about stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know...stuff.”
“School?” Jade asks. “You get good grades.”
“B’s and C’s.”
“No way. You’ve gotten, like, one C,” she says. “Plus you wrestle, which is super serious.”
“I’m second-string on the JV team.”
“And you worked hard last summer,” she says. “We both did.”
“Come on, Jade, be honest. We got to work late most days and sometimes took an hour for our half-hour break. And I don’t have to remind you what we did a few times during those breaks.”
For a while, there’s silence. A very frustrated and annoyed silence, I can tell.
“Mel, whose side are you on?” Jade says, eventually.
“Yours. I mean mine. Ours. I’m on our side.”
“Working at DDI? Think about all those chemicals you’re going to be around,” Jade says. “The fumes, Mel, the fumes. Breathing them in. Filling your lungs. They’re going to make you mental. Or sterile. Maybe kill you.”
Jade, always the drama queen.
“I’ll just be in the office part,” I say.
“Then you’ll die of boredom.”
Jade is so endearing sometimes. And persistent. I tell her she’ll be a great lawyer someday. Again, there’s silence on the other end. I forget how much she hates lawyers. Her father lost a big court case a few years ago. I never really understood what it was about. But, ever since, he’s complained about “getting bent over and run up the A-tunnel” by the legal system. I think he’s just an aloof, angry man. He rarely pays any attention to Jade and me, and the few times he does he has this creepy way of asking about my favorite wrestling moves, when I know he doesn’t care at all. I’m sure he just wants to hear me say, “hi-crotch” or “chest to chest.”
There’s a knock at my bedroom door. Before I can answer, Cole pushes his way in. I whisper to Jade to hold on, and slip the phone under my pillow.
“What’d you eat?” he asks.
“A salad.”
“What’d you really eat?”
“An endive salad with white wine vinaigrette,” I say. “Then some gazpacho.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Tomato soup—cold—with a little garlic, basil, salt, and pepper.”
“Sounds like crap,” Cole says.
“To the uncouth, it might,” I say. “For the refined, it is the perfect entrée. Minimum calories, maximum enjoyment.”
Cole folds his arms across his chest. “Mom already told Dad what you two had for dinner—snails, lobster, tons of butter.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to be down in the basement lifting weights. You coming? Your fat ass certainly needs to.”
“Please don’t bother me, Cole,” I say, loud enough for my parents to hear. “I’m doing homework.”
“Homework?” Cole scoffs, as he leaves my bedroom. “Tell Jade I said hello.”
I ignore him and wait for him to close my bedroom door. “What’d he say?” Jade asks when I get back on. “Nothing,” I answer, then we pick up where we left off.
“Mel, I have a new mission,” she says.
“A mission?”
“Yep. I’m going to help you nip this whole DDI thing in the bud.”
I don’t bother arguing with Jade. If she wants to make this her mission, fine. She tells me she’ll have a plan figured out in a few days. Then we say goodbye and hang up.
I step down the basement stairs and take a seat.
“Need a spot?” I ask.
Cole looks up from the bench. “No,” he snaps, as if I should’ve known the answer. He sets his hands, then his feet on the floor, arches his back, and with a grunt lifts the barbell from the rack. His body stiffens—like a controlled spasm—as he begins his reps, his chest and arms and shoulders easing the weight down, then pressing it up. One…
Two…
Three…
The fourth is a real struggle. My instinct is to help him just enough so he can lock out his arms. But I don’t. Cole wants to experience that moment when his muscles give up but his brain doesn’t. That’s when the battle begins, he always tells me. That’s when you find out if your mind controls your body, or your body controls your mind. Whatever that means. Guys have a lot of ridiculous sayings and stupid philosophies they apply to workouts and competition, and winning and losing, that seem insightful until you think about what they actually mean, and then you’re like, “Huh?”
But this time I feel myself edging off the stairs. The barbell isn’t moving up. And Cole’s muscular forearms are quivering. I’m ready to help. Ready to jump up and give my brother a spot. Is the barbell sinking?
I lean further, ever so slightly…
And, then, it’s like that moment when the Grinch (it was on TV the other night, okay?) has that epiphany about Whoville and becomes insanely strong. The barbell does not dip lower. Instead, Cole presses it up, locks out his arms, then racks it with a loud clank. God, I can’t believe he got that one. Face flushed, he stands, thrusts out his chest, and gives me one of his patented maniacal looks.
“Mind over body,” he growls. “Mind over f’ing body.”
I roll my eyes. Okay, Socrates.
As much as I like to mock my brother’s quotable quotes, I can’t play down his wrestling talent. And I’m pretty proud of him, though I’d certainly never tell him that. He was 29–5 last year and a Division 2 region runner up. He could’ve done well at the states, if a nasty stomach flu hadn’t hit him the night before (he puked his guts for two days). But he made up for that disappointment in the spring and summer, placing in five freestyle and three Greco-Roman tournaments, winning two. In July, he went to the J. Robinson camp at the University of Minnesota and another that Coach Hillman held at our high school.
“Well…” Cole says to me.
“What? You want me to leave?”
“I want you to do a few sets.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re goddamn lazy.”
That’s not exactly a fair assessment. Besides feeling bloated from dinner, I just don’t have the single-mindedness about wrestling that he does, living the sport year-round, training and practicing and drilling moves all the time.
“You need to get stronger,” my brother says. “I see you getting your ass kicked in practice sometimes. It’s embarrassing.”
“Leave me alone,” I say, standing up.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself, quitter.”