The Girls of Fall

By Jessica Minyard

B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree

 

In the era of blue eyeshadow, body glitter, and Axe, seventeen-year-old Sophia Salvatore starts her junior year with one goal: get a boyfriend.

 

She's an award-winning varsity athlete and the best friend of Bridget James—the most popular girl in school. That should make it easy, right?

 

Right. Except snagging the catch of their class turns out to be the easy part. Keeping him proves harder. 

 

Especially when her dad comes back into her life—sober and saved—wanting to resume a father-daughter relationship and lecture about boys. Especially when she can't untangle the ambivalent feelings about her first boyfriend. Especially when a rift begins forming between her and Bridget that she can't explain.

It's only after their friendship finally, and publicly, implodes that Bridget reveals a secret that could change both of their lives.

 

The girls of fall have an important decision to make: will they start their senior year together or fractured apart?

 

A funny, gritty, and fierce coming-of-age story with an authentic voice, The Girls of Fall is the nostalgic, perfectly angsty romp through the early aughts you didn't know you needed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Centurion Books
• Release date: Nov 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781957004013

Book preview

The Girls of Fall

Jessica Minyard

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Centurion Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE GIRLS OF FALL © 2021 by Jessica Minyard

All Rights Reserved

First Edition. November 2021

Published by Centurion Books

www.jessicaminyard.com

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-957004-00-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-957004-01-3

Cover by The Red Leaf Book Design

Also by Jessica Minyard

The Littlest Dragon

Fat Girl Love Story: Poems

Nonnatus: Poems

Contents

Author Note

Dedication

1. ONE

2. TWO

3. THREE

4. FOUR

5. FIVE

6. SIX

7. SEVEN

8. EIGHT

9. NINE

10. TEN

11. ELEVEN

12. TWELVE

13. THIRTEEN

14. FOURTEEN

15. FIFTEEN

16. SIXTEEN

17. SEVENTEEN

18. EIGHTEEN

19. NINETEEN

20. TWENTY

21. TWENTY-ONE

22. TWENTY-TWO

Afterword

PLAYLIST

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author Note

This book contains material that may be triggering to some readers, including: sex (fade-to-black, implied), discussions of sex, language, mild drug use, mild alcohol use, alcoholism, sudden character death (off-page), religion, and discussions of religion.

To the messy girls, with wild hearts and curly hair

ONE

August 2005

Father Adrian was a sex god. The Adonis of holy men. He had thick auburn hair that fell into his eyes and the broad-shouldered, thin-waisted body of someone who used to play quarterback before he decided to devote his life to Jesus. Standing behind the altar, he held aloft the body of Christ in a golden bowl.

It was a Wednesday, which meant chapel for the first two periods. As always, chapel was divided equally into boys and girls—boys in the back pews and girls in the front. They didn’t trust us to not tempt the boys with our womanly wiles, I guess. This suited us fine because we enjoyed the unobstructed view of Father Adrian unless we got stuck behind one of the huge white columns. Chapel was optional, but attendance had definitely increased since Father Adrian showed up at the end of the last school year. If you didn’t go to chapel, you had to go to class, and ogling Father Adrian was definitely the better choice. 

I glanced over at Bridget, whose attention was focused on her lap. She sat with her legs crossed, her phone hidden by skirt and thigh, an outrageously pink fingernail flitting over the keyboard.

Would you screw Father Adrian? I asked her, attempting to keep my lips from moving too much. 

She looked up at Father Adrian stepping down from the altar with the Eucharistic Ministers in tow and gave him a long, leisurely look. Probably.

Me too.

In addition to being rather drool-inducing, Father Adrian smiled easily and liked to crack jokes during his homily, much to the annoyance of the only, and elderly, sister present. 

Bridget resumed her furious texting. From what I could glimpse, there were a lot of fuck yous being exchanged. With her head bowed like that and her face scrunched up, she appeared particularly devout. We hadn’t even made it through the first week of school yet, and already the drama had begun.

I poked Bridget in the ribs. Nun.

The phone was snapped shut and covered with clasped hands as Sister Constance patrolled past our pew on her ever-vigilant hunt for evildoers. She paused briefly before moving on, and I resumed my lewd doodle in the margins of my hymnal. 

By the time chapel ended, it was time for third period. Devotional Studies—joy of my life. I heard rumors that kids in public school got to pick their electives, but in here, we had to make room on our schedules every year for Devotional Studies.

Bridget and I walked together, as always, a gaggle of classmates and wannabes trailing behind us. You see, I held a coveted position in Saint Agnes High School’s social hierarchy: Bridget Margaret James’s Best Friend. 

I first met Bridget in Sunday school when she had blond pigtails with pink bows. She took one look at me, and her big blue eyes sparkled as if to say, you, friend. Then she ran over and grabbed my hand and announced that we were now best friends. Since we had just moved to the district specifically so my mom could send me to Catholic school, I wasn’t complaining about effortlessly making my first friend. 

On the outside, we looked like disparate girls, and I’m sure some people wondered how we stayed friends. Bridget was naturally popular, and I was the quiet one; she just got blonder and slender and grew soft curves while I was the curly brunette who just got thicker around the bottom half; her parents could pay tuition out of pocket, and I was on half scholarship and the other half reduced tuition because I only had a one-parent household. 

We weren’t supposed to wear jewelry to school, but we each had a black elastic choker on, hidden by the collars of our polos. Each choker had half a silver heart charm. Mine said Best and hers said Friend. We had bought them together in Florida the summer after my dad left. Mom let me go on vacation with the Jameses so I wouldn’t hear her crying in her room. She needed me out of the house as much as I needed to lose myself in cutoffs, sun, sand, and virgin margaritas, my partner in crime leading the way.

Now juniors, the only class we had together this semester was Devotional Studies. I was on the Art and French track, and she was on the Economics and Spanish track; our paths wouldn’t meet again until AP U.S. History next year.

 We sat together behind Zack Werwie and Corion Jump. Corion used to bring condoms to class and blow them up like party balloons until Sister Constance finally caught him. She smacked him with a ruler, threw a right medieval fit, and banished him to the principal’s office. Nobody knew what happened after that, and nobody was brave enough to ask. Corion never brought condoms to class again, though. 

Sister Constance swept around the silent room, the stench of old mothballs trailing along behind her, throwing our journals down on the desks. Every day of every year, we were given a prompt and had the first fifteen minutes of class to work on it. I flipped to yesterday:

Saints are holy people and human people who lived extraordinary lives. Each saint the Church honors responded to God’s invitation to use his or her unique gifts. God calls each one of us to be a saint. In two paragraphs, explain how God calls you to use your own gifts.

Under this super compelling prompt, I had drawn a detailed picture of a zombie—replete with gore and dripping brains—along with an elaborate illustration of my name. Obviously, Sister Constance was unhappy with my answer because, under my drawing, she had scribbled a big red F and a frowny face.

That’s disgusting. Bridget was looking at my drawing with an arched eyebrow and pursed lips. 

Bridget’s journal was spread open, so everyone could see the A stamped under at least three paragraphs of her tiny handwriting. Nobody could have that many gifts. 

You don’t even try, she said, fingers trailing into her polo to rub the choker. She did that sometimes when she was especially exasperated with me as if she could transmute her thoughts through touch. 

I didn’t respond. I just opened my journal to a fresh page and waited for Sister Constance to dish out today’s prompt. She stood at the front of the room, dressed all in dismal gray, smiling. It was never a good sign when a nun was smiling. 

Class, she said, today we are going to have a guest speaker. Please welcome Sister Francis from Sisters of Mercy.

Obligatory applause ensued, and all heads turned to the back of the room where Sister Francis was standing. The sister was petite with short blond hair and a sweet face, but looks could be deceiving, especially when it came to nuns. 

But before we begin, I ask that these students wait out in the hallway. Sister Constance started reading off names from her grade book. I was surprised when she called my name but not unduly worried. I gathered my stuff and followed the other six out of the classroom. What good little sheep we were. 

I was just about to take my seat up against the wall with them when Sister Constance poked her head out the door.

Sophia. She beckoned me to join her in the doorway. She glared at me over her long nose for so long, I started to fidget. This is a Call to Vocation, and we do not think you possess the qualities we are looking for in those who wish to join our order. She paused again. That being said, I would like for you to do something productive with your time. Take this to Father Adrian. She handed me a small white envelope. That’s when she spied the notebook I had clutched to my chest and snatched it out of my hands. And you know journals do not leave the classroom. She slammed the door.

I finally noticed I was the only girl asked to leave the classroom for the nun-recruiting event.

That was depressing. Here I was, under the impression convents would take anyone brave enough to volunteer, when in fact, there were certain qualities one had to have. I started walking down the hallway, acutely aware of the six pairs of boy eyes fixated on the backs of my thighs, turning the envelope over in my hands. It wasn’t addressed but had Sister Constance’s signature scrawled across the seal. I was intrigued. 

The walk was short, and soon I found myself standing in the doorway of the parish office. Father Adrian was leaning against a set of morose gray filing cabinets, flipping through a manila folder. He was wearing his black cassock, which was quite attractive against his fair skin. He appeared thoroughly engrossed in whatever he was reading, so I attempted to clear my throat delicately. I ended up choking. 

Father Adrian looked up. Do you need some water?

I dismissed this notion with a wave and continued coughing violently into my elbow. After a few painful seconds, I was able to regain whatever dignity I still had left and looked up.

Father Adrian put away his folder and sat down behind the desk. He gestured for me to sit in one of the fancy leather chairs opposite him. Do you need to make a confession?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 365 days since my last confession. I’m having impure thoughts about my priest. No.

He smiled. Two dimples appeared on his otherwise unmarked face. His front two teeth slightly overlapped, which caused him to appear much too young and not like the learned holy man he was masquerading as.

They’re doing a Call to Vocation in class, I said.

Ah.

Sister Constance kicked me out. She wanted me to give you this. I passed the envelope over the desk. He opened it deftly and scanned the brief letter.

So you’re one of those. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested one hand on his knee, the letter dangling loosely from his fingers. One of the many misguided youth Sister Constance likes to send me. 

I’m not misguided. I wasn’t, really. I made decent grades, played varsity soccer, and spoke passable French. I wasn’t in line for valedictorian (solid number seven for three years), wasn’t the team captain, and a Frenchman would laugh at my pronunciation, but I didn’t think that qualified me as misguided.

He smiled again, and I forgot what else I was going to say. You’re Sophia?

Yes. I spoke to my knees. Oh, be still my beating heart!

Sister Constance is worried that your behavior in class might be—

That’s about me? I nodded toward the letter he still held.

Sister Constance seems to think you’re acting out. My leg started bouncing. How’re things at home? That old witch sent me to get counseling. Any problems with your peers? She probably thought talking to Father Adrian would lead me to the path of righteousness. Yeah. How’re your classes?

Fine, fine, and fine. Everything’s fine. Listen, Father, I don’t know what Sister Constance said, but I don’t need any help.  

He held the letter up and cleared his throat. Let’s see. ‘Miss Salvatore is a menace to my classroom and a disturbance to my other pupils. She frequently speaks out of turn, shows a blatant disregard for authority, performs poorly on her assignments, and makes a general mockery of such a fine establishment for the Lord.’ Are you mocking the Lord’s establishment, Sophia? The corners of his bright eyes crinkled in amusement. 

I would never do such a thing, Father. That was a lie, I probably would, but never in front of Sister Constance for fear she would smite me.

So, what did you do?

I told him about the prompts and journals and my latest artistic response.

I would like to see that, he said.

We’re not allowed to take our journals out of class.

I’ll just have to ask her if I can see yours to investigate such a serious allegation. He waved the letter around.

She hates me.

I’m sure she doesn’t. We both looked at the letter, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: Yeah, right.

The bell rang for fourth period, and I jumped. Um…I’ve got to go. Class.

I stood up, and so did he, walking around the desk to clasp my hand in both of his. It was nice to see you, Sophia. Feel free to come back anytime if you need to talk. His hands were warm, and my skin hummed at the contact.

I could feel heat creeping up my neck and just nodded, not trusting my mouth to say something smooth and not horribly embarrass me…again.

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After Art and lunch, my next class was Earth Science since I flat-out refused to be on track for AP Bio or Chem.

Mrs. Conway was a beanpole of a woman with close-cropped hair and severe bangs that tended to be on the frizzy side. She wore long, graphic skirts and clogs and would stand at the door greeting everyone until the final bell rang. I entered the classroom and went straight to my preferred spot: somewhere in the middle but definitely in the very back row. I slid into the desk and shoved my backpack under the desk between my legs. 

The class filled up quickly, and I wasn't alone in the back row for long. Rafael Esparza slid into the desk to my right with no backpack and just a beat-up notebook he flopped on the top. Got an extra pen, Salvatore? he drawled. 

I rolled my eyes. Rafael Esparza had been haunting me ever since he got his hooks into Bridget in middle school. They were no high school Romeo and Juliet; they were on-again and off-again like a light switch. I couldn’t decide if it was his personality that bothered me or the fact that he was the reason my best friend was never single. I would literally bet my life that he was on the receiving end of Bridget’s furious text barrage earlier. 

Rafael was attractive in a scrubby way that was very annoying. His tie was loose and askew, polo unbuttoned, green Saint Agnes cardigan sleeves cuffed messily. His dark hair was effortlessly feathery and came to his chin.

"Not one for you, Rafi."

His dark green eyes narrowed. Rafi was a pet name I had heard his abuela throw at him one day in the school parking lot. It was not a name he boasted at school. He slouched back in his chair.

I smirked. This round was mine. 

Right before the final bell rang to signal class beginning, in strolled London Hart, his uniform as crisp as Rafael’s was sloppy. My pencil stopped its aimless scratching. London hadn’t been in this class earlier in the week; I would have definitely noticed. He must have switched his schedule for some unfathomable reason.

London had grown up over the summer.

He was taller than I remembered and shoulders broader. Everything was thicker—neck, arms, and thighs—like he had been inflated by puberty. London was Saint Aggie’s quarterback, or he would be after Craig Bishop graduated in May. Right now, he was only second-half, but everyone knew he was heir to the position. 

My mouth must have been hanging open because I heard, See something you like? soft and low next to my ear. Rafael had leaned over the aisle and was right up in my personal space. 

It took all my self-control not to stab him with a pencil.

London did this weird combination of secret handshakes and side-hugs with three other football players who were taking up the front row before taking his seat. But not before I noticed how snug his khakis were.

Mrs. Conway clapped her hands, brightly chiming, Welcome to another beautiful day, intrepid learners!

Rafael had thankfully retreated to his space when Conway started writing the day’s agenda on the whiteboard and humming tunelessly while she worked. 

I flipped to an empty page in my sketchbook and started taking notes. 

Junior year. Goal: finally get boyfriend.

Make all other friends jealous. LH????

And then I started penciling in his face, the sweet music of the graphite scratching the thick paper raising the hair on my arms.

A new school year was always bittersweet because my birthday always seemed to fall the week before. My mom had come

Reviews for The Girls of Fall

[Chante Van der Walt · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great coming of age book. The struggles of a teenager coming to terms with life and their sexuality. Felt a bit dragged out and the romance part felt a bit rushed/short.