Friendship (short Story): Wrestling with myself

Sierra was one of those girls everyone hated and everyone secretly wanted to be except me. I just hated her.

Even the teachers gave her a wide berth and never challenged her. She'd walk through the school, a cold expression on her face, wearing the latest and most fashionable clothes. She seemed to have a sixth sense about when something suddenly was no longer trendy and had become common and therefore unacceptable. The first day of school she passed me with her posse of only slightly less intimidating mean girlfriends and looked at the pearl grey Uggs I'd so carefully picked out to coordinate with my pink sweater and skinny jeans: "Oh God," I heard her say, "Could that outfit BE more basic?" Her friends tittered. I couldn't care less, though: I knew there was two options with girls like that -- either you sucked up to them or you ignored them, there was no option of neutrality.

It was when I saw her kissing Mark that I declared war in my mind against her.

Mark was my best friend. He had been since grade school. I've always gotten along better with guys much more so than girls. Girls will act really nice to your face but then cut you down with their words behind your back. At least guys will say what they really think about you. Also, I've spent much more time with guys because there is one weird thing about me: I'm on the guy's wrestling team.

The local newspaper did a story about me awhile back: "Local Girl On High School Wrestling Team." It's less impressive than it sounds: I'm short, so in my weight category it's pretty much me and all the rest of the 98-pound guy freshmen on the team who are too fragile to play football and too short to play basketball. I consider myself athletic and did martial arts as a kid so it seemed like the one thing I could be good at in high school. There's no girls' team.

I'm a sophomore now but even then, I still get comments. "It's not fair: the girl always wins. If she beats him, he's a wimp and if she beats him he's a monster." But it doesn't seem fair that I shouldn't play just because of attitudes like that.

Mark's on the team, too in a higher weight category. We go out together afterward sometimes. Do homework together and eat if we're not worried about trying to make weight. People have asked me both if we're dating or if I'm a lesbian because I wrestle and my best friend is a guy, which is really confusing. I always furrow my brow and say "duh, no," to both questions but the truth is, I do kind of like Mark that...

But he usually talks about the girls he likes to me, so I know he doesn't see me as girlfriend material.
I never knew he liked Sierra though. It makes me think less of him, somehow, kind of like Sierra disrespected me for wearing Uggs.

I mean, he'd sometimes casually ask (because we were in lots of the same classes) if she had a boyfriend and stuff like that. I'd just shrug, I'd never say that she fun of me and the rest of the girls like me who weren't in her clique because we didn't meet her standards.

Mark is thin and scrawny and in his weight category he's one of the top in the state. I'm okay. I'm beatable, I know, but not terrible.

Then, I saw the two of them holding hands, Mark and Sierra, walking through the halls. I tried to make a joke of it. "You didn't even tell me," I said, casually. "I didn't think she liked dorky guys like you." Mark's smart and although he's got a Varsity letter and all, it's not like being on the football team.

I look at myself in the mirror sometimes, evaluate what I see. I'm small, pale and ordinary. I wear some makeup, I try to look nice. I look okay, but nothing special.

At the next meet, I watch Mark get pinned to the ground. His face is white and strained. I tuck my hair more securely into the helmet. I belong here, I tell myself, I had to prove that I could do push-ups and pull-ups, run an eleven minute mile, just to be on the team. No one can take that away from me.

As I face off against the kid, I hear people calling his name. "Rick, Rick," they shout. He's wiry and looks strong but like an underdeveloped little kid. Hardly anyone chants my name on my team. I do hear Mark's voice calling out "Bridget! Bridget!" So there's that.

I feel Rick's bony rib cage against my arm, his stomach that feels all muscle, his spine pressing up against me, every vertebrae. I can break him. "Lock in," shouts coach. I have him in a lock and I'm twisting him down to the ground. I know I've won even before it's called.

"Nice job," says Mark. We slap hands.

It's so unfair. I've never been the kind of girl who was raised to be quiet and to hide her accomplishments. Like, there are girls I know who get straight As but purposely act dumb because they don't want to seem, I don't know, intimidating or something. I guess there are some people who might say that the fact I'm so focused on school -- whether it's my classes or sports -- is why I don't have a boyfriend. If people ask me why I don't have one, I usually say I don't have time. But then I…