“I loved it, too. I was really thinking I’d go somewhere big, like Alabama or University of Florida. But when I saw Reeding, I knew it was the place. It’s the perfect distance from home, it’s gorgeous, the classes seem awesome.… I have to apply there, and if I can get a scholarship, I’m definitely going. How about you?”
I nodded, wondering if Lindsay, too, had imagined herself with a messenger bag. “Same.”
“Oh, Devon, this is so great.” She squeezed my arm. “We could be roommates., Do you realize that?”
Roommates. With Lindsay Renshaw. Lindsay, in a towel and shower shoes. Lindsay and her unrelenting barrage of charm and cheer. Could I handle that?
What’s more, could I handle Lindsay seeing me in my shower shoes? I looked over at her.
Hardly believing the words were leaving my own lips, I said, “I … yeah. I mean, yeah. That would be cool. Right?”
“Oh my gosh, I just got really happy.” Lindsay squeezed my arm. “Devon—well, okay, this is kind of cheesy, but I’ve always wanted us to be better friends. I see you around with Cas, and you just seem … I just always wanted us to be closer. So this would be so awesome.”
Cas. Yes. Lindsay and Cas, potentially dating. Lindsay and me, potentially rooming. I would have to buy noise-canceling headphones. Or build a cinder block wall around my side of the room. Either way, Lindsay couldn’t be denied. And she looked so happy right now, and it was oddly infectious, so I was kind of happy, too, regardless.
“Awesome,” I replied, and part of me meant it.
25
We were still working on football in gym class, doing flag football scrimmages. The flags posed a problem for the PTs, because the flag belts covered up the strip of skin between the tops of their shorts and the bottoms of their shirts. This was prime real estate, so they compensated by tying up their shirts a little higher.
We were dividing into teams in class on Tuesday when Mr. Sellers called Ezra over. He was standing with Mr. McBryde, the varsity head coach, a little ways down the field.
“Wonder what they want,” Foster murmured as we both watched Ezra go. Mr. Sellers and Mr. McBryde were speaking in tones too hushed to be heard from where we stood, and when Ezra reached them, Mr. McBryde put a hand on Ezra’s shoulder.
“I know what it is,” someone crooned. It was the slightly pathetic PT, the one who had lobbed the football at me the day Foster’s kicking talent was discovered. “My daddy’s a cop. I know what it is.”
I didn’t know what her daddy’s being a cop had to do with it, but most everyone was listening, even the ones—like me—pretending not to. Foster was staring straight at her, as if daring her to say something bad about Ezra.
“Some kid crashed his car. Some kid from … like, Lake Falls or something? He got drunk and crashed his car and died.”
“What does that have to do with Ezra?” My voice was strangely wooden when it left my lips.
“Well, he was a football player.” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He was, like, the captain or something. And we’re playing them this week.” Her eyes gleamed. “Maybe they’re telling Ezra not to crush them because they feel bad.”
I stared at her for a moment. What an obnoxious girl.
Then I turned my gaze to Ezra. Mr. McBryde still had his hand on Ezra’s shoulder.
Ezra didn’t look as if he’d just received the news of a death. His face was as neutral as usual. His eyes, though, in his eyes there was a brightness that I had never seen before, and not a good kind. I could tell from where I stood that something wasn’t right.
Maybe it wasn’t a death. Maybe it was the Bowl. Had he been kicked out of the Bowl? Disqualified as an All-American? Maybe they got wind of Rachel Woodson’s crappy article and somehow believed all that statistics-mongering stuff.
“I bet it’s not that,” Foster said, glaring at the PT who had spoken. “I bet they just need him for an interview or something. I bet it’s not that at all.”
The PT gave Foster a scornful look and turned back to her friends.