“Do you at least like their art?” I ask, glancing at him.
“I guess,” he says. “I mean, it gets shown and stuff. I think they’re big names in the world of abstract textile art, which is, unbelievably, a world. People pay a lot of money for it. But to be honest, to me it just looks like a bunch of bedsheets folded weird.”
I laugh out loud and Seth laughs with me. Just then we pass the U COPY IT with its OPEN sign flashing. I think of Frank in his red vest inside, flipping through a paperback.
“Hey,” I say, pointing out the passenger window. “That’s where I make the copies of Moxie.”
Seth peers out the window and nods approvingly. “Cool. That bathrobe thing seems to have worked.”
“Yeah,” I say. It feels so strange to be able to talk about making the zine out loud with someone. But really good, too. “I’m not sure if I’m going to make another issue. But I kind of want to.”
“You totally should,” Seth says.
As we drive through town without a destination, the sun setting around us, I find myself telling Seth about my mom’s Riot Grrrl past and how it inspired Moxie. Then we start talking about bands. He’s heard of Bikini Kill but never heard them, heard them, so at Seth’s prompting I pull up “Rebel Girl” on my phone. From the opening beats, he likes it. I can tell.
“That lead singer sounds like she could kill you with her voice,” he says, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “But, like, kill you in a good way.”
“Totally,” I tell him, and my heart swells.
We go back and forth on bands for a while, and Seth describes a couple of live all-ages shows he got to go to in Austin. I’ve never seen a band play live except for the East Rockport High School pep band, and I’m super intrigued as he describes how his ears rang for days afterward and how cool it was to get to talk to the band members while they were selling their own merchandise (only Seth calls it “merch”) at the shows. After I’ve stored up a list of bands in my head to check out later, Seth drives by Eternal Rest Funeral Home on Front Street. A small sign displayed in the front lawn under a floodlight reads DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE! WE CAN WAIT!
“Wait, is that for real?” Seth says, nodding toward the sign.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It’s this thing they do. They change it out every once in a while. Once they had one that said ‘It’s a beautiful day—look alive!’”
“Are you shitting me?” he asks. “And people still give them business?”
I shrug. “They’re the only game in town, so yeah.”
At this, Seth makes a sudden right turn and pulls into the funeral home parking lot. He turns up the music a little bit and starts bobbing his head back and forth to the beat as he spins circles over and over.
“Um,” I begin, turning to face him, totally perplexed, “what are you doing?”
Seth grows serious. “I’m cruising the funeral home.”
I explode with a loud laugh. “Cruising the funeral home? Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Seth insists. He mimes waving at imaginary cars, chin-nodding at invisible people nearby. “This is so dope,” he says. “I feel like I’ve finally figured out what East Rockport is all about. This is such a scene, man.”
The nervousness from earlier has drained from me, replaced with aching cheeks from smiling so much.
After we cruise the funeral home for a while, Seth says he’s getting hungry, and we find an open Jack in the Box on the outskirts of town. As we pull through the drive-thru, I offer Seth money, but he says he’s got it “this time.” (Does that mean there’ll be a “next time”?) I order a milk shake and some fries.
“Y’all left the game early?” the scrawny, redheaded cashier asks as she hands us our food. She looks like she graduated from East Rockport twenty years ago and has been working at the Jack ever since. Her name tag reads SHAWNA.
“We never went,” Seth answers.
“Well, you’re missing something terrible,” Shawna replies. “I’ve been listening on the radio and they’re down 35–7 at the half.”
“Damn,” I reply, my small-town instincts kicking in, ready to express dismay anytime the home team loses. “That’s a serious beating.”
“I have faith they’ll come back,” Shawna says with a disapproving frown. “Go, Pirates.”
“Go, Pirates,” Seth answers, holding his Coke up in a salute.
Seth parks the car in the Jack in the Box parking lot and between slurps of his drink and bites of food, he asks, “Is football this big every year or just, like, this year?”
I snort into my milk shake. “You are new,” I say. “The answer is every year. Every fucking year.”
“You know, I played back home,” he tells me.
I whip around, my eyes wide. “Now you’re shitting me,” I say. He might as well have told me he was studying to join the priesthood.
“No,” he says. “I’m not shitting you. I mean, I was the kicker. I’m too skinny for any other position. But I was the kicker on the junior varsity team, and I was going to go out for varsity this year until we had to move.”
I slap the dashboard to emphasize my shock. “You were a football player? And you listen to Black Flag?”
Seth’s smile cracks his face wide. “Yes! I’m not making this up. I can show you pictures when I’m done eating.”
I try to visualize Seth in those weird short pants and huge shoulder pads football players wear and my mind goes blank. I never thought I’d have a crush on a football player. For a split second I feel a little like my mom on a date with Republican John. If this is even a date, I remind myself.
“I’m sorry, I guess it’s just that … I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but here … here the football players are … like…”
“Total assholes?” Seth offers, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ve noticed. But just because a guy plays football doesn’t make him an asshole. Unless, you know, you think I’m an asshole, and you’re just hanging out with me because you feel sorry for the sad new kid at school.”
I glance down at my milk shake. “You’re not an asshole,” I murmur, then take a loud slurp. You’re just a hilarious and totally good-looking guy who listens to cool bands and likes my zine, and that basically makes you the boy of my dreams, but you know, whatever.
“That’s good,” Seth says, grinning. “That I’m not an asshole. Back home football was a sport people were into and everything, but it wasn’t the only thing people cared about, so players were more chill, I guess.”
“Well, people aren’t chill about football here,” I answer. “Those players are the reason this town and this school exist. I mean, they’re what people get excited about around here. They’re what makes East Rockport worth living in for some people. The chance that this year we’ll make it to the playoffs, you know? The hope. You watch. Starting next week the talk will already be about the next season and how that will be the year we take state.”