“What?”
My smile spreads a little wider. I reach in my bag and grab his girlfriend’s panties, then toss them on his desk.
“Pretty sure these are yours,” I say, waiting to capture a mental picture of his agape mouth, lost for words. His jaw works side to side while he stares at the undies, and a sharp laugh leaves his chest.
Satisfied, I take my seat and pull out my project and notes. I’m still undecided on dropping the fact that I did the project alone, not that it will matter to our teacher. There’s an unwritten rule that football players get a free pass around here.
“Hey, June.” Lucas’s voice is steady and calm. I didn’t think the bullet I fired would sting for long, but I know it stung. I saw it on his face, and that’s enough.
I turn my head to the left enough that I can view him in my periphery. He leans forward and tugs lightly on my braid, an almost flirtatious tease that maybe would have sent my heart into butterfly Olympics before last night. Now, though, I see it for what it is. It’s bait.
“Thanks,” he says, his hand swallowing up Ava’s panties in a slow sweeping movement along his desktop. He leans to his left and pushes the thin, lacey garment into his right pocket, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel my body growing hot, but I don’t let him see how affected I am.
“You’re welcome,” I manage to say. I’m stronger than I think I am. “Don’t mention it,” I add, then turn around, never letting my focus stray from the front of the room for the rest of the hour. And when our teacher collects our projects, I wait for most of the class—for Lucas—to clear out, and write a note on the top of my assignment.
Lucas Fuller had nothing to do with this project. If you want to know why, ask Ava Pryor.
I hand it in and leave without commenting out loud. It will be what it will be. And it is going to feel like forever.
Chapter Eight
I’d forgotten what Friday nights are like around here. For the last two years, I spent them watching back-to-back sit-coms while binge eating excessively-buttered popcorn and peanut M&Ms. Sophomore year, I was busy helping my mom care for my grandmother, and last year, I wasn’t an Allensville Public Fighting Eagle so no need to expose myself to all of the rah-rah pep shit.
I’m in the thick of pompoms and shirtless teenage boys painted orange and blue now, though. Public is a decent team. Lucas is a more than decent quarterback. There’s buzz about this season, but the entire school shows up for the first home game regardless. It’s the perfect storm of panic-inducing high school chaos.
It’s also easy to get caught up in.
I pick the girls up in my mom’s van and we blare power-chick music all the way here. I almost forget how small I am by the time we walk through the gates to the field. Ava Pryor is sure to remind me.
“I’m pretty sure she gets in as a child,” she shouts when I walk up to the ticket window with my five bucks and my ugly ID. As tough as I’ve trained my skin over the last week, her words still cut, almost as much as the laughter it spawns from people nearby. Even still, I walk on. But she catches up, shoving the blue jersey she’s wearing in my face—Lucas’s away jersey.
I’ve been staring at her back—the bold number 1 centered under his last name—and I can’t shake how much mental space I am giving to such an awful person.
“She hates you, you know?” Lola rests her chin on my shoulder so she can talk into my ear above the sound of the drumline sitting a section to our right.
“I’m well aware,” I say with a wry smile.
My new friend puts her arm around me and squeezes, an awkward hug, but mostly because I don’t know how to do those kinds of things. I exhale and let my body accept her affection. Lola holds her popcorn bag out to the side, tipping it for me to grab a handful. Might as well have my favorite Friday-night food since I’m enduring being here. I scoop some kernels from the bag and lick at the salty bits one at a time, trying like hell to ignore the girl I hate as much as she hates me.
There’s a camera crew on the field—a real one, not our student-run Internet show. They’ve positioned camera guys on either side of the banner being stretched out by a tower of cheerleaders. When the team trickles out, everyone in the student section—which has basically grown to be two-thirds of the stands—gets on their feet to scream. Abby is standing in front of me and she turns, catches me not doing my part, and points in that threatening way she has.
“Fine,” I mouth, cupping my hands around my lips and shouting, “Go Eagles!” as loud as I can. The sheer volume of my own voice, the togetherness of this moment, all of it—it infects me. My smile quits being pretend, and I get caught up in my role. I have a part to play, albeit probably not as important as everyone thinks, but for the next three hours, I will be a superfan. For the next three hours, nothing matters more than winning this game and destroying some school from South Bend.
The young men on the field shout in unison, growling with testosterone and pounding into each other, smacking helmets to helmets and gripping at facemasks to amp up their game faces. They explode through the banner, confetti covering the corner of the field as it’s fired from a few cannons held by some of our cheerleaders. Lucas is the first to break through, holding an American flag as he sprints straight down the center of the field, his co-captains running behind him with two Eagles flags.
My All-American boy.
He was so much younger the last time I saw him run like this. He was a leader that seemed too small to lead, but now—now he’s the guy with the V that cuts down his abs and whose arms completely fill out the sleeves of his jersey; whose neck doesn’t seem so pencil-thin anymore. His sweaty hair is swept to either side, and the black lines swiped under his eyes somehow make him seem like this superhero.
A hero who abandoned me when he got popular and when my life fell to shit, I remind myself.
The team captains are met by one of the coaches at the fifty-yard line. He takes their flags to fold them while the boys huddle up to pray. It’s such a blatant disregard for the separation of church and state, yet it seems nothing could be more important than this bonding happening in front of us all. More than the quiet power of the moment, though, is that Lucas is the one leading the prayer. Arms over shoulders, circles standing within circles, these boys who I’ve seen do the most unchristian-like things give respect to his words. I wish I could hear him or be close enough to read his lips. Some of the boys look up to the sky, a few of them holding their helmets high while their heads lower. Lucas’s eyes are closed, and there’s an innocence in his features, that much I can see from here. They all start clapping and an echoing “Amen” accompanies their formation of a tighter circle until the clapping becomes thunder and soon . . . fuel.
Lucas is the last to walk away from this private spot on the field. His head down, I recognize the familiar invisible weight on his shoulders. Even as kids, he always felt so damn responsible for everything and everyone. Especially for me. He rode his bike through rain to sneak me my favorite candy bar when my parents were fighting downstairs. And he insisted we fall asleep still on our phone call to each other if I felt scared or off. He sensed things when I didn’t share. He took burdens from me, whether I wanted him to or not, and shouldered them until he was sure my smile was real again.