“We sure missed you this summer. McPhearson’s not half the running back you are. You been keeping up on your running?”
“Yes, sir,” I say as enthusiastically as I can muster.
“Good, good. You just let me know when you’re ready, okay? Is there anything I can . . . ?” He trails off awkwardly.
“Nope. I’m good. Thanks.”
“All right then.” He pats my shoulder again and steps aside so I can get to class. I don’t have to look back to know he’s watching me. I can feel it.
? ? ?
“There you are!” Sheila calls down the hall just before lunch, pretending to be upset because I did or didn’t do . . . something. There’s no escaping her. So I walk toward the herd of short skirts staring into their phones.
“You didn’t text me back, mister.” She pouts. She actually pouts. She’s developed this affinity for drama lately. I can’t stand it.
“I was in class.” I lean down and kiss her neck, and all is forgiven.
“I mean last night.” She scratches the back of my neck with one hand and rests the other on my chest. All I can focus on is her ridiculous puke-green nail polish. It looks like fungus. “Hello?” She taps a putrid nail against my pec.
“My dad,” I say as way of explanation.
“I’m so sorry, baby.” She places her palm against my cheek and it almost makes me feel better for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Until I see her glance at the girls next to us to check if they’re watching, to make sure they see just how tragic her boyfriend is and how wonderful she is to take care of him.
I wave her off, hoping she’ll drop it before I say something I shouldn’t.
She does.
“You working tonight?”
I shake my head.
“You wanna meet up at my house after practice? My mom’s got a dinner meeting, and you know my dad’s clueless.”
“Sure.” I could use a good distraction. As long as she doesn’t expect me to talk about everything and get all emotional and shit. She keeps trying, and I get that that’s what a girlfriend does, but it’s not going to happen.
“Great. I’ll wait for you since your practice usually goes longer than ours.”
I open my mouth to remind her that I’m not going to practice, but decide I don’t feel like a pep talk, so I kiss her instead. No matter how many times I tell her, she won’t let it drop. I wish I knew if it was because she cares about me or because she’s worried about the social ramifications of not dating a football player her senior year.
“Shee, come on. We’re going to lose our table if we don’t go.” This from the other brunette girl who used to date Marcus—Nine, I think. She playfully tugs at Sheila’s dark hair until she pulls away from me. “Hey, Tyler,” Nine says, “where’s Marcus?”
“Do I look like his keeper?”
Nine giggles. And then she and Sheila turn toward the cafeteria.
Sheila whips around when she sees I’m not following. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Not hungry,” I say.
? ? ?
I actually am hungry; I just need to not be around Sheila and her friends. I don’t bother going back to class after downing my Chipotle—I decide my time will be better spent reading at Starbucks. Plus I don’t want another run-in with Marcus about practice, especially because I know Sheila told him I wasn’t working tonight.
The parking lot has pretty much cleared by the time I return to school. I head toward the chanting-in-unison coming from the upper gym—our gym has two levels, the smaller upper gym for stuff like volleyball and cheerleading, and the larger main gym on the lower level for the real sports. I make myself comfortable on the ground, leaning my back against the wall to wait for Sheila. A few stragglers walk by; I keep my head down so none of them has the urge to strike up a conversation. I’m pretty safe—it’s mostly drama and band geeks. None of them would ever bother talking to me.
“Hey, Tyler. You weren’t in chem today,” a tinny male voice says.
Apparently I was wrong.
I look up to see a skinny guy with glasses—Jeff maybe?—walking toward me with some Asian goth chick. She drops her pencil and it rolls across the floor coming to a rest when it hits my leg. I hold the pencil out for the girl, who grabs it without bothering to say thank you.
The skinny guy stares, still waiting for me to say something about skipping class, but when he realizes his goth friend has kept walking, he runs to catch up with her. I hear him whisper something about being rude and doesn’t she know my mom just died and crap.
“That doesn’t give him carte blanche on assholedom,” she says. He shushes her and glances back at me to see if I heard. I laugh to myself.
The gym door hits my foot, so I pull myself up. Sheila practically runs into me as the cheer herd stampedes out of the gym.
“Ty? What are you doing here? I was just coming to find you.”
“Mission accomplished.”