I take a straight razor, the kind that unfolds into three pieces, out of the costume, placing it delicately on the table next to me. I've stood in the same spot, pushing a broom at the end of the court, for over two hours without a break. My belly grumbles as I lean over to sweep up a fallen wrapper. The only thing worse than being hungry is being hungry and tired all at the same time. I don't dare ask for a break, though. Not when all the other workers are younger than me and don't have to sweep for two hours straight.
I'm going to be 20 soon, but that doesn't stop me from looking like the sweet girl next door. The kind that gives out cookies for Halloween and prefers to be left alone with a good book. I've got a heart shaped face and an underbite, which makes my smile look a little crooked.
The costume is a heavy, satin thing that weighs a ton. It's got a frog head with a baseball uniform on top, and a giant foam hand with a pen in the middle that people sign. It's ridiculous and I always know that behind my back they're laughing. "Get a load of the mascot!" they whisper.
When I finish sweeping one corner of the court and move along the fence, a shadow falls across the court and everyone stops talking to stare at me. It's the basketball team. I'm afraid to look up because the largest of them, Press-5, is tall as I am. He towers over me, and I don't know if he's smirking at me or if he's giving himself a pretend pat on the back, like he's amazed that this girl is working the all star game. His sweaty palms resting against the fence right by my face.
"You got a couple minutes?" he asks.
"What for?"
"To show me the ropes. For the home game."
"There's no good way to sweep a basketball court," I say, my face going red. I'm about to say something else when the coach comes by, whistle in hand.
"Get back to work, girls," he says and huffs off back to the bleachers. I never even see him sit down.
"Sorry guys," Press-5 says. "The girl has to do what's best for her. I don't make the rules. But me and some of the others," he nods towards four other basketball players, all larger than myself, "would like to know how to play ball. You can teach us. If you don't, well, we'll figure it out."
The only other time I've been bullied was by a bunch of jocks in high school during a school dance. I froze. My legs wouldn't move. I sat at the buffet table with a full plate of potato salad and sour cream dill dressing in front of me. I couldn't even swallow. I could taste their greasy, watery eyes on me as I sat there, eating up the scraps that other people chucked out of their plates at the end of the night. I liked my books and my quiet table.
After the dance, I had a lot of lacy panties piled up on my floor and a broken laptop. My parents weren't impressed.
"We don't need you to change the world," they said. "We just want you to live happily."
But I wanted to change the world. I wanted to be a hero.
So I ran away from home when I was 16. I came here to do good.
Then I was called a liar by the old ladies who sit in their pajamas in the front row of the high school.
Now, at 20, I'm still called a liar.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a good worker. I sweep the courts at night, so no one notices me. I sweep the hotel laundry room, so no one notices me. I sweep the streets of the downtown area, so no one notices me. I work early and late, so no one notices me. I sweep the all star game, so no one notices me.
