Coach made us run laps for every peanut left in the bag.
I nearly lost a lung that day. And then I had to listen to Sam bitch the whole time about how we would’ve been done twenty laps ago if we’d just stuck with cookies, because there wouldn’t have been any cookies left in the bag by the end of the third quarter.
I smile to myself and watch as the game goes on. Before I know it, I get swept up in the crowd in the best kind of way, cheering when our team pulls out a first down on a carry up the middle by the running back, or when the other team misses an easy thirteen-yard field goal.
The cheerleaders’ bright uniforms catch my eye. They’re in formation on the track, right in front of the stands, their teal-and-white pom-poms moving precisely. When a girl with blond hair is launched into the air, I look away before my mind can try to mess with me.
I refocus my attention on the quarterback as he calls the play on the field. My eyes follow the players as they move into position. I spot a fullback standing out of place, leaving a gap wide enough for the defense to easily slip right through. Oh no. I want to shout to the quarterback to look out, but my voice is frozen.
The center hikes the ball. I grip the bleacher I’m sitting on as the offensive line breaks to run their play. The quarterback cocks his arm to launch a pass just as the defense blitzes. Red jerseys rush the offense, and hulky Number 9 finds the gap.
Everything seems to slow down. My chest is heavy with dread, but I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s too familiar. Way too familiar.
On the field, the fullback freezes, realizing his error. He leaps to protect his quarterback, but it’s too late. Number 9’s already there, nothing but air separating him from his target.
I lurch clumsily to my feet as the ball drops awkwardly from the quarterback’s hand, his entire body crumpling under the weight of Number 9.
His scream reverberates around the stadium.
My shoulder twinges in sympathy as I see the fullback calling for help, his quarterback writhing on the ground, arm splayed behind him at a nauseating angle. Coach runs onto the field and rips the quarterback’s helmet off to reveal messy brown hair and… Oh my God.
I’m staring at myself. That’s me down there, arm twisted backward.
I almost vomit, barely managing to swallow the sour bile. This isn’t happening.
The fullback drops to the grass. He yanks his helmet off. It’s Sam. Sam missed the block.
I can see the panic on my best friend’s face from here.
My bad leg trembles and buckles, no longer able to hold my weight. I collapse onto the bench, one of the worst moments of my life playing out right in front of my eyes. How is any of this happening? My brain is fucking with me again. It has to be. Just that thought starts to calm me.
It’s not real. It’s a hallucination. That’s all.
“You’re stronger than this, Kyle,” a voice says from next to me.
I freeze, then slowly turn my head.
God, there she is. Kimberly, sitting on the bench beside me, eyes straight ahead, focused on the field, her skin as smooth as porcelain under the bright stadium lights. I blink furiously, waiting for her to disappear, but she doesn’t.
“You’re not here,” I whisper.
“I haven’t left,” she says as she turns to look at me, the stadium lights illuminating the rest of her face. The entire right side of her head is cut up and bloody, her blond hair matted and red. She reaches out her hand to touch mine. And nothing stops her. I feel it. But no one else is reacting.
“You’re not here.” I rip away from her and jump to my feet, trying to put as much space as possible between us. “You’re not here! You’re not fucking here.”
“The fuck?” someone says, knocking me back into reality.
In one blink Kim is replaced by a curly-haired guy a few years younger than me, his face painted teal and white. “I’m here, dude,” he says, sliding away from me as he looks me up and down. “You might need to be somewhere else, though.”
Fuck.
What just happened? What is wrong with me?
I grab my defrosting groceries and get out of there as quickly as my busted leg will carry me.
* * *
My head is searing by the time I open the front door. I drop the groceries in the entryway and run straight to the bathroom.
Taking a deep breath, I grasp the edge of the sink, the marble cool underneath my palms.
“She isn’t haunting you. It’s all in your head, idiot,” I say to my reflection.
I lean forward to stare at the scar, the long, jagged red line still inflamed and angry. I reach up, almost touching it, wanting to feel the healing skin underneath my hand, wondering what is still broken underneath it.
Which might be everything.
I let my hand fall, and my fingers find the counter again, gripping tighter. My gaze drops from the scar to meet my own reflected eyes, the pupils large and unsteady.
“Kyle?” a voice says from behind me, and I practically jump a mile.
I lean to the side and look past my reflection in the mirror to see my mom, still in her work clothes, her eyes tired but alert.
“Are you okay?”
When I don’t deflect right away, she grabs hold of my hand, leading me down the hall and into the living room. She sits me down on the couch, and I finally blurt out the truth.
“I keep seeing Kimberly,” I say as I brace myself for the look of pity to cross her face. “On this couch, and at the ice cream parlor, and today in the stands. I know it’s not real—you don’t have to tell me that. But, Mom… it feels so real. And I keep feeling like it’s because it’s my fault that—”
She squeezes my hand to stop my rambling, my words hanging heavy in the open air.
“Kyle, none of this is your fault,” my mom assures me, her voice calm. Certain. “None of it. You’re going to get better.”