the story of the football star

and the labels that stick

Good morning my angels,

It’s Monday morning. It’s a very, very, very gloomy Monday morning. Now, the thing with being by the sea is this: when the summer is over, it immediately turns into rainy season. And not a beautiful, light mist where you can still just open an umbrella and stroll near the boardwalk. But like, monsoon weather. Buckets of rain and thunder and wind and sheet lightening. Cozy? Yes. Slightly depressing? Also, yes.

So, we have a 2 litre bottle of water beside us. I already had my first coffee, which was actually a cold brew (I made two mugs of Instant yesterday so I popped one in the fridge - it was amazing). It’s almost 10 AM, and I’m still in a pair of Brandy sweats and a silk PJ tank.

My agenda for today is this: write an unfiltered letter to you.

I have to tell you something. One of my good friends from high school just recently moved here. And can I be honest? It feels like having a family member nearby.

There’s something about having someone who has known you since you were 14, enter back into your life 15 years later, just like they never left. In this Italian life, where the friends I’ve made have only known me for a couple of years or a couple of months - it’s easy to feel misunderstood.

“But is Italy lucky to have you or what?” She tells me as I tell her another story of my failed Italian when a man asked me how old I was, and I told him, with confidence “uno ani” - as I thought he was asking me how long I was staying for. (Uno ani translates to one years old.)

In the summer of going into grade 10 and grade 11, my friends and I would attend summer school across the street from my house. Summer school wasn’t only reserved for those who failed, it was also reserved for those who wanted an easy credit.

Now, coming from an all-girls school - this was our time to shine. To be in the same vicinity as the boys from the all-boys school. It was our chance to wear the shortest denim cut offs we could find, and those Abercrombie/Hollister eyelet tanks and t-shirts that we had in rainbow colours.

For lunch (and sometimes for dinner), my friends and I would regroup at my house.

“Hi girls!” My mom would say as she opened the front door. My friends would immediately fill her in on the gossip of the morning. He looked at me today // He’s not talking to me, but we stayed up until 1 talking on MSN // etc. etc. etc.

“But that was just Rose. You wanted to tell her everything. And that was your house in the summer. You walked in, and you just felt…warm.” My friend says to me.

In high school, there was always something. Some sort of drama, some sort of situation that I’d find myself in.

In the summer after I turned 15, I met a boy that first Summer School Summer. We had a few mutual friends, and already had each other on MSN. He had gone through the growth spurt of the summer. Meaning that he had become unrecognizable from the year before. He was tanned, tall, and built. He had these dark brown eyes and dark brown, curly hair. Of course, he was poised to be the next star of the football team. The attention was on him. But he was reserved, quiet, and shy. Almost as if he wasn’t ready, or didn’t really want the girls and the party invites and the attention that the world of high school was about to throw at him.

Well, me and our Football Star started to message on MSN every night. We sat on opposite ends of the classroom, and we would never, ever speak to each other in person. But every afternoon at 3 PM, I’d rush back home to my computer and couldn’t wait to login, because there he’d be. With an emoji, with a “Heyyyyy”, with a question about class. Our friendship became our secret, except, with my entire friend group knowing every last detail about it.

One time, his printer stopped working and he asked me to print out his assignment. Meaning, we would actually have to speak to each other in person the next day. So, I printed it out. And all day, my heart was racing. Me and Football Star had to actually converse. In person.

My friends all knew, of course. This was a moment. This was the moment. We didn’t know when he would approach (God forbid I’d be the one to start that conversation in front of his friends - boys were still a foreign species to me, and as much as the drama excited me - they also terrified me at the same time).

Well, the bell rang at 2:50. We were done for the day. Feeling a bit defeated, I started to pack up my Hollister tote bag, wondering what explanation he’d give to me on MSN after ignoring me all day. My friends gave me sympathetic looks. My 15-year old thought process was this:

Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Maybe I’m not cool enough. Maybe it’s because I didn’t wear my TNA shorts.

Until, the tall and tanned figure appeared by my desk. Looking sheepishly down at the floor, I could make out the sentence: “Hey. Can I have my assignment?”

After summer school ended, we became very real, in-person friends.

It was always speculated that we had a thing for each other. Our summer school story was cute. He was cute. I like how he’d match his neon hats to his neon t-shirts. I had finally learned how to properly straighten my hair. I was watching Miley Cyrus make-up tutorials and mastered the Party in the USA music video make-up. Things were going swimmingly in Emily Mais’ tenth grade world.

Until, we were met with a little problem. One of my eleventh grade “friends”, also had a crush on him.

“Emily, I have an idea. If you give me his MSN, I can find out if he likes you or not.”

Well, tenth grade Emily, though having perfected the Urban Decay Naked Palette smokey eye, was a little bit naive at this point. And not listening to the warnings I had gotten from a few friends - I introduced them to each other on MSN.

And a month later, they were together. It was official. The MSN relationship status. The date they started dating. Love, I guessed. They were in love. And there I was.

So, I did what any 15 year old would do. I dove headfirst into an obsession with Blair and Chuck from Gossip Girl, and started to figure out which one of Football Star’s teammates I could make out with - in order to piss him off the most.

However, my Aries moon and Gemini Sun revenge plans were thwarted when I received a call from this frenemy in November, letting me know that they had broken up. She was heartbroken after their month long romance ended.

To which, this call was followed by a text from Football Star, asking me to call him.

“I think I always liked you.”

“I think I always liked you, too.”

And thus, began me and Football Star’s “secret” romance. We’d go to the movies, we’d make out in my basement. Even Rose was in on the secret.

“You have to know your daughter. She loves the drama.” She’d tell my dad.

And me and this frenemy were still in the same circle, but me and Football Star’s secret “relationship” was only known to a few people. Aka, all of my friends.

I mean, it was only a matter of time before it was bound to come out. It was the only thing any of us could talk about at lunch.

“You’re really playing with fire here.” A friend warned. But we all loved it.

Football Star had sent me Akon’s Don’t Matter on MSN, and I felt like I was on top of the world.

One day in December, I logged into MSN.

“Let me be the first to wish you both the worse - you two deserve each other” was my frenemy’s updated MSN status.

(Please note - I burst out laughing while typing this - the ridiculousness of it all).

But, my tenth grade heart sank. She knew. And it wasn’t the friendship that I was devastated about losing (because let’s be honest - that wasn’t real), but it was the fact that I knew Football Star was going to distance himself from me.

We had two options - we could come clean, and be together amongst all the high school drama, or, we could deny it all and distance ourselves from the other person.

And, because it’s a man’s world, and a football star’s world - what’s the easier option? Distance. He never denied it. But, she was older. Her guy friends were his guy friends. The social ladder. The parties. What people can “offer” other people. It’s always a dirty game.

And you can guess what happened next. I was labelled a slut. When 3OH3’s “Don’t Trust Me” came on at a party, her and her three friends sang it and pointed at me (we all know that chorus!!) - all while Football Star sat at that same party, unscathed, of course.

And I laughed. I laughed it off with my closest friends. Because here’s the thing, even though we were 15. We all knew. We all knew the truth.

Now, I think back to 15/16 year old Emily. Who felt like she had a mark and a label on her that followed her throughout high school. The comments about being a boyfriend stealer, the slut, the whore, “the team towel”.

And it makes me sad, to be honest. That these terms were thrown around so loosely and so freely, without anyone really knowing the true weight of them. Comments that follow you, and that make you feel like you have been reduced to a body, meanwhile, the boys are just that: boys.

The boys that we’ll fight for, over and over and over again.

Now, interestingly enough, Football Star always lingered (up until last year, might I add). Rose would always roll her eyes every time he’d pick me up to take me to a movie or hang out in his car (lol).

I never told her about the names and the labels. Because she raised me to know that I was always so much more than what people thought.

Last year, when I was in the throws of the first summer of Past Newsletter’s heartbreak - my spiritual friend asked me: “What advice do you think your mom would give you right now?”

“Honestly? She’d tell me to put on my shortest dress, march in there, get him to make me a dirty martini and - if another man wants to buy me a drink - then let him the serve both of us.”

Because boys are just that, aren’t they? Boys.

I also realized something else. No one can ever make you feel like you are just a body.

“I see so much of her in you, it’s crazy.” My friend from high school tells me as we finish dinner.

Well my friends. I’m going to leave you there. With a little bit of empowerment. A little bit of drama. And a little space to think about our 15/16 year old summer selves.

I love you,

Emily