“They look like an army,” Foster murmured, and I followed his gaze to the visitors’ bleachers, a sea of blue and gold.
After we claimed our seats, I surveyed the crowd around us. A rowdy group of freshmen was in front, and there was a large group of seniors behind us—people I recognized but no one I was particularly friendly with. In Jane’s time, they put a huge distinction between acquaintances and friends. Friends you could disclose your innermost feelings to and spend a lot of time with. Acquaintances you visited for a quarter of an hour because propriety called for it.
The equivalent of that quarter-of-an-hour visit today was a few smiles, some waves, and a “what’s up?” here and there. That’s what I received from the seniors, and what I readily returned with as much friendliness as the occasion called for, before turning back to observe the rest of the crowd.
Foster was sitting next to a Goth couple who were so deeply entwined it was hard to tell whose limbs were whose, and to my right, holding a cigarette and looking mildly bored, was Emir Zurivic.
“I was wondering when you’d notice me,” he said.
I didn’t know much about Emir; only that he had moved to America just a couple of years ago, and that he already knew cooler slang and more obscenities than I had learned in my seventeen.
“You psyched for the game?” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say but felt as if some conversation was required.
“Psyched to make some cash. I put a hundred down that we win by more than thirty.”
“More than thirty? That’s five touchdowns.”
He shrugged. “Flat Lake’s a shitty team, and that Ezra kid’s good.”
“Five touchdowns good?”
“You seen him play?”
Everyone had seen Ezra play, and everyone knew he was good—five touchdowns good. He never missed a pass. Where the average guy could push five yards, he pushed twenty. But I thought about him in gym class, that lazy drawl, You were supposed to lateral it, and so I said, “He’s all right. Nothing special.”
Emir smiled. “I like a girl with impossibly high standards.”
I looked out at the field once more. Emir’s smiles tended to make me a little uneasy. Somehow frowns seemed more natural on his face.
I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for him, transitioning to Temple Sterling. Emir was the source of many rumors around school, mostly concerning his pre-suburban Florida life. I thought most of them were pretty outlandish, but as Emir looked out over the field, I couldn’t help but examine his face for some indication of his past. Like maybe there was some sort of mark people bear if they’ve seen tragedy in their lifetime. A look around the eyes, some downturn of the lips. But nothing looked out of place on Emir’s face, aside from a slightly crooked bar piercing his left eyebrow.
Action started up on the field before I could ponder Emir’s past any further. The crowd around us leaped to their feet as the players entered, a wave of TS red and white from one end of the stadium. The cheerleaders had one of those paper banners, which the first few guys burst through with ease. From the other end of the field came the blue and gold, and the Flat Lake bleachers erupted. The scoreboard glowed like the tip of Emir’s cigarette, and the game began.