I Don't Play Chapter 1

 

Ok, just so you know. I don’t know the first bloody thing about tutoring. I’m not good at math or grammar or spelling or anything educational for that matter. And I still can’t spell the word dinosor. I remember getting a point marked off for that in high school. It’s not like I even butchered the word, OK? You can still read it. I mean, why can’t words in the English language be spelled phonetically?

            “I need help on something,” says a kid who then throws his little packet of work right in my face. Excuse me? Who does this little boy think he is? Can’t he see that I’m busy correcting other crap?

            “I need help,” he repeats. I throw a dirty look at him. No you don’t. You want answers.

            Another thing about phonetic words. Answers should be pronounced as an-swers, if you know what I mean.

            I glance down at his work, and I notice a little “sp” next to the word he spelled wrong.

            No. God no. It’s dinosor. I hate that f*****g word.

            “It’s spelled wrong,” I say matter of factly, as if it wasn’t already the most obvious thing in the world. First of all, what kind of kid can’t spell the word dinosor?

            Oh right, there’s me. F**k.

            “Why don’t you ask the tutor over there? I’m sure she’ll be willing to help.” This was my brush off answer for all the students I didn’t know how to help, which I’m pretty sure, is all of them. “I’m much too busy right now you see,” I add for good measure. He stalks off and I let out a long sigh.

            I need a new job. This one sucks, but the thing is, this has been my fifth job in about three months. I’m officially out of places to go to because to be honest, I know nobody’s going to hire a flaky slacker like me. But first thing’s first: I am going to quit this job that I’ve only been occupying for a week. But it’s not my fault the kids here are annoying as hell. I’ll just have to find a better job…with pleasant-er people to be around with. Besides, I can’t send them to another tutor every single time, or else my boss would notice. Oh and by the way, here’s the worst part about this job: she won’t let me use a bloody calculator to check my an-swers because she thinks it’ll encourage the students to use calculators too, which is apparently not good for their brains. Bullshit. We’re not in the 1800s anymore. This is the new technology era where no one goes anywhere without a phone, and just about every house and building in the world has a freaking laptop computer with internet access on it. I mean come on, give me a break, a calculator isn’t going to kill someone’s brain. Isn’t the whole point of a calculator in order to give the brain a break anyways? Duh. How can people be so dull?

            Another thing about this stupid job. I can’t bloody check the time on my phone. Yeah there are clocks all around the room for people to see, but doesn’t my boss understand that by “checking the time” I mean “checking my texts”? I mean, it’s all right if the parents don’t notice right? I can be discreet. Discreet I say. See I can use big fancy words too! I’m pretty smart, right? In fact, I lied earlier, I can spell dinosor correctly. There’s an “A” somewhere right?  Like dinosaor? For some reason that doesn’t look right to me, but then again the entire English language is gibberish to me. I say dinosaor should be spelled phonetically. Yes, I’m going to bring that up again. And yes, I am going to take out that f*****g “A” because it’s stupid. Go die, stupid “A.” No one needs you. You’re just a waste of ink.

            But never mind the damn “A.” I’m quitting.

 

            Now, after quitting my job, I have to find another source of money so I can live and continue to buy instant ramen every day. I know that after awhile, those things start to taste gross and bland, but once you start adding more ingredients and stuff to it, it gives off a whole new flavor! Like one time I tried adding some old asparagus to it and it looked pretty damn healthy to me.

            Except it was extremely disgusting. So let’s just forget all that.

            Anyways, back to job hunting, again. I know that tutoring is off the list, ugh. But so is waitressing, running a bookstore, selling pretzels, and dry cleaning. I can’t believe that such a sophisticated woman like me can’t do any of that!  Maybe I’m just too good for them. Too…sophisticated.

            “Spencer! I found another job opening for you!” Lucy calls from the living room. Oh god, not another random job opening. She’s half the reason why I’m job hopping so much. It’s because I actually listen to her when she tells me to interview for all these random places. She’s also drunk most of the time, so I don’t know why I take her seriously in the first place. I’m such an idiot sometimes.

            But right now I’m really out of a job, and I don’t know what else to do so I decide to entertain her. “Oh my god, Lucy! That’s amazing, thanks a bunch!” I swoop down and give her an awkward hug. She doesn’t respond and remains in a lazy heap on the floor with her head lobbed back on the couch. “What kind of job is it?” I ask sweetly.

            “Mmm…” she mumbles, “I think it’s a ball girl.”

            A what?

            “A f*****g…BALL GIRL, SPENCER!” she suddenly shouts, “You’re going to be a f*****g ball girl. Oh, that’s just divine!” She squeals. Did she lose a screw? Maybe she’s just extra extremely drunk today.

            “No, Lucy, I’m not going to be a ball girl,” I say to her defiantly. I’m done entertaining her, what does a ball girl do anyway? I glance down at the newspaper ad sitting in her lap. There’s a job opening at some kind of prestigious sports club and they’re looking for a “Ball Girl.”

            “But Spencer, you must be a ball girl. It’s the only way you’ll ever find happiness in life. In fact, every girl should be a ball girl. It’s simply divine. D’you know what I mean?” she slurs drunkenly.

            “No I don’t know what you mean, Lucy. And you’re very drunk.” I reason.

            “Spencer,” she commanded. “Look at me.” I deliberately do not look at her. “Look at me.” I am not prepared for this as she suddenly uses one of her hands to grab my face in her palm. “You. Owe. Me. One.”

            “I what?” I say, dumbfounded. Since when did I owe her? She’s a mess! And the only reason why she’s still here is thanks to me, for paying for both our rents, and she says I owe her. God, what a day.

            “You owe me one. And that’s that, so you’re going to be my ball girl, OK?” she rants on. “Yay…Spencer’s gonna be a ball girl…Spencer’s gonna be…”

            I let out a long breath. “No, Lucy. I am not going to be a ball girl. I am not going to take any of those random job openings you find seriously anymore, and I am now officially on a job break, so as you can see, I can’t be your ball girl right now.” I look her in the eye and instantly regret it. Oh please, she’s crying.

            “Spencer…ever since my mother died, I’ve…I’ve…well you knew her Spencer. And her last words were…” her voice has lowered to a whisper. Oh my god, not this again. She knows I can’t say no to this, even though it’s all bullshit--

            “She said ‘I’ve always wanted to be a ball girl.’”

            That’s it. I’m done here. “NO, Lucy, she DIDN’T say she wanted to be a ball girl. And I know this for a fact because I was there when she died in the hospital, OK? I’m sorry but I can’t be your ball girl for your mom and that’s final.” This entire conversation was ridiculous. It’s like talking to a child.

            To my dismay, she cries even harder, and now I can’t help but regret my words even though I know she’s f*****g drunk.

            “Please?” she whimpers. “You might find a really nice hot guy,” My eyebrows go up because I know what’s coming, “for me.” She finishes. Why do I even put up with this girl, you ask? Well frankly I don’t know the answer to that myself, but we grew up together, and her mother raised me as if I were her second daughter ever since I lost mine. And well…just look at her, Lucy I mean. If I leave now, who’s going to take care of her?

            “Fine,” I say. But I swear, this is the last time I’m ever going to listen to her. “When do I start?”

 

            The next day, I’m at the sports club…and it already looks like a five-star hotel. Everybody seems to be wearing either expensive sport’s wear and/or talking on expensive phones, using expensive bags and equipment, and having expensive snacks. I already feel like a beggar in my old gym sweats and t-shirt. I’m not even dressed for the interview, so if I get the job, it’ll be a miracle.

            “Excuse me? Can I help you, ma’am?” asks the receptionist at the front desk.

            “Er…I’m here for the job interview?” I say nervously.

            “Which one are you here for?” she asks politely, though there’s already a question in her eyes. I can pretty much read her mind, “What the hell is she wearing?”

            “I’m here to be…the new ball girl!” I say cheerfully. I need to be enthusiastic about this. If my clothes won’t help me, then maybe my oh-so-bubbly and kind personality will.

            “I see…yes, well our head tennis coach will be here shortly to see to you. Please have a seat,” she motions toward the fancy leather couches in the middle of the lobby.

            “Thank you,” I mutter, and quickly take a seat. I can feel people’s eyes on me as they walk by. Obviously I don’t really belong in this kind of place, but that doesn’t give you all the right to stare! I’m about to snarl at one particular snobbish looking lady when a voice speaks up.

            “Hello, are you here for the job interview?” says a very muscular and overly tan woman. She looks like she’s never smiled before in her life. Now would be a good time to say that somebody really needs a hug. Or a boyfriend. Or a life. And it’s not me.

            “Yes!” I say a little too excitedly. Oh great, why am I getting excited? I don’t even know what a ball girl does.

            The tan lady looks me up and down, and I give her a few seconds to scrutinize me…and my old dirty gym clothes. “Well you seem fit enough, but let’s get you some better clothing shall we?” she nods at my sweats. Oh please, they can’t look that bad, right? I glance discreetly at the glass wall next to me and almost gasp. Lovely, I look simply terrible compared to all these rich folk. Now I wish Id’ve tied my hair back or something. It looks so disheveled falling all over my face.

            “This way please.” I follow her into a side door that leads away from the lobby and we go into a little locker room. There are racks of white clothing everywhere. The tan lady carefully chooses a few garments then hands them to me.

            “There, those should fit.” I look down at what seems to be a short little tennis skirt with a tennis shirt and tennis cap. I rub my fingers against the material for a bit. Is this really going to be my new work clothes? The whole thing felt too new and expensive.

            “Thank you,” I say uncertainly. The lady gives me a strange look.

            “Oh and sorry for not introducing myself earlier. I’m Coach Hanson here. Starting today I’ll be your new boss, so if you need anything just let me know.” She turns to leave, “You can change here, then meet me in the tennis courts and you can start your job straight away.”

            I nod, pretending to understand, then without thinking, before she leaves me alone lost in this completely different and insanely rich place, I stammer, “Right. Is that it?” I ask, aghast. She can’t be serious, surely? The look she’s giving me makes me back track, “I mean er…what’s my job, exactly?”

            Hanson looks at me as if she were looking at a stupid annoying puppy, “You’re the ball girl. What else do you expect to do except pick up tennis balls?”

Reviews

[Myrmidon]

well. i finished and lol! ur story makes me want to laugh a little bit at spencer. you've perked my interest, and i wonder how itll turn out x]

[Lizzy]

Chapter 2!!!!1

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good story. I like the way you led the reader to the ending. A ball girl ain't the worst job. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote