From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer Page A

Those shoulders.
    “Good to see you.” Mack repeats this strange dance of slap and thump with each of them. It’s that odd hello ritual guys do.
    “Who are the other guys?” Clarice whispers to me. We both sneak a glance at Maggie, hoping she’ll have done some research.
    Her blank look is not comforting. The guys are skinny. Muscular, but, well, there’s no fat on their legs. On anywhere.
    I swallow, doing the math. Unless they’re all brothers, which I know they’re not—the rippling muscle thing must not be genetic. Five guys, not related, plus soccer equals no fat.
    “We’re going to die,” I stage-whisper.
    “Uh-huh.” Clarice finally makes eye contact with me. She’s figuring out there will be pain.
    “Can we sneak out?” Maggie tugs at the oversized cotton covering her dainty proportions like a crescent roll on a toothpick.
    Mack turns back to us. He’s smiling. A really big smile. “Now, we’re going to work you today. Don’t worry if your soccer skills aren’t up to World Cup level, we’ll get there later.”
    I have a mental flash: I think I kicked a soccer ball once in PE, in the fifth grade. It hurt my big toe. Why have I blocked this memory until now?
    Mack continues. “We need to get a feel for your conditioning, put you through some basic drills, and then tomorrow we’ll get out the balls.”
    Oh goody, I will collapse before even touching the soccer ball. That’ll be humiliating.
    “We’ll start each practice by running a couple of miles to warm up. The red line is an eighth of a mile. This gym is your new home. We’ll live in here for tryouts. Any questions?”
    Do I want to be buried or cremated? Bagpipes or boy band?
    I look around at the group of about fifty girls. Some faces Iknow but most I don’t. I pull Maggie into a huddle with Clarice. “How hard can it be to get cut the first day?”
    Relief blooms on their faces. “You’re right. There are lots of girls here. Odds are we’re the least skilled,” Maggie says.
    “There’s no shame in giving it a try and being ousted because we suck,” Clarice adds.
    Mack announces, “People, let’s do a mile to start. Eight laps, people. Look alive.” He nods to one of the guys, who presses a remote button. Supernova’s latest riff fills the gym with reverberating chords. “Run, run, run.” Mack herds the group in a clockwise motion.
    It’s either run or be trampled. I am so not about to die by trampling.
    “I’m so sorry!” Clarice screams at us.
    “You’ll pay later.” I put my hands around my throat in a mock choke.
    We run. In straight lines. Around cones. From line to line. We dodge balls thrown at our heads at alarming speed.
    Two girls drop because of turned ankles. Another is sent to the nurse because she doesn’t dodge the ball quite fast enough. Someone else slips on sweat and hits her nose on the floor, which means we get a five-minute break while the janitor cleans up the blood.
    “I can’t feel my feet.” Maggie pokes her toes with her finger.
    “I have blisters on blisters. These shoes are cute, but they suck for support.” Clarice’s sneakers are so trendy they’re never actually supposed to be worn.
    “Am I dead yet?” I haven’t sweat this much since—let me think about this—never.
    Maggie looks at the clock and groans. “We’re only half done.”
    “Okay, people. Mess is cleaned up. On your feet. Don’t want tostiffen up.” Mack smacks the clipboard and blows his whistle in a jaunty little jig.
    I’ve been too preoccupied to even notice Lucas until hands appear from heaven to pull us up. I look up, knowing my hair is standing up sticky with sweat and rehydrating product. Let this be a lesson: no gel or spray until after practice.
    “Gert, good to see you.” He smiles at me, then at Clarice and finally at Maggie. “You guys are hanging in there. Good spirit.”
    I grimace a smile. “Thanks.” I’m too tired to care that my sweat and his sweat have blended on my palm. I’d