I’ve kept Izzy up to date on most of the football drama. She came to our house to visit Noah as soon as she got back into town on Wednesday. Her family believes in life experiences more than school attendance, so she misses a lot of class for trips. Her grandparents took her with them to visit a new exhibit opening in L.A., and Izzy paints, so this trip held a little more academic relevancy than most. Her dad is on the board, though, so she’s almost always excused, and her assignments are done on the road.
The mic is passed to a few different people. Everyone thinks they want to hear their voice at one of these things, but then they don’t really know what to say. It’s a lot of the same stuff—“I love this team!” Every single one of them has been a member of The Tradition. Now bald, fat, divorced, but usually rich, they all relive their best moments right here in the middle of our gym they helped pay for.
They all want to see Brandon. They don’t want to see some “scholarship kid.” That’s why my dad isn’t going to go through with it. He’s bending…caving.
“I’ve never noticed how hot Nico is,” Izzy whispers. I stiffen, half because I’d gotten lost in the background noise of the presentation, and half because of the words she just said.
“Yeah?” I say, my lips barely parting. They’re so dry. My throat…dry.
“Maybe because he’s usually so…I don’t know, argumentative? You know how he is in our class. And you don’t have calculus with him, but he’s that way in there, too. He’s always sighing—frustrated when Mr. Talbot has to go through a formula again. But I don’t know, there’s something about him in that jersey…”
“You’re just smitten with football players,” I say, smiling on one side of my face—the side she can see.
“Maybe,” she giggles. “But I don’t know…”
Izzy winks at me as she stands with her bright-gold pom-poms. For the first time ever, I hate her perfect legs when they walk by me in the deep-blue skirt, her white shoes topped with blue bows, glitter on her cheeks, and the perfect swirl of her ponytail resting on her bare shoulders. I stretch my own legs out, tugging the roll of my denim shorts down my thighs, but the fit still so snug that my leg indents where the fold rests. Freckles spill out down my knees and all the way to my ankles, where my feet slip into my Vans without socks. Everyone always says they love my freckles. They say they’re like stars—like a map to the universe. The people who say that are all old. Boys here want curvy, smooth, golden—they want the fantasy because there are so many of them. I move to my knees and tug my shorts down one more time, pulling so hard that they slide down my hips a little. I decide that as uncomfortable as this is, it’s better than the tight fit around my thighs. There isn’t anything I can do about the freckles.
“I think we’d all like to get a report on how Noah Prescott is doing, right?”
I stand as Principal Locket begins to rile the crowd up about my brother. I know Noah is here. I saw him outside the gym when I walked over with Izzy. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since the break.
My brother’s leg is bound in a cast that covers his knee, so walking on crutches is slow, but he ambles to the mic with the help of his girlfriend, Katie, who takes one crutch from him so he can lean into the other as she moves to the background.
I move to the small space between both sections of bleachers so I’m centered in front of the team and my brother. I want to get the best view of everything, and as much as I don’t like people watching me work, I also don’t give a damn if it makes my video better. Folding my legs up, I rest the camera on the small tripod stand and lean forward to watch my brother through my screen.
Everyone around me has stood by now, screaming and cheering for the same guy they were ready to hang for not doing enough to win a playoff game last year. My brother thrives off their fickle love, though. His cheeks are red—the same way mine turn—and he clutches the mic in his hand while he rests it on the top of his head. Sometimes I can’t tell if his humility is earnest or well-rehearsed. I think both forms are okay today, though.
He brings both hands forward, his left arm unable to stretch completely due to the crutch, and gestures downward, urging everyone to quiet and take their seats. Everyone ignores him, though, still cheering until he turns to his team with laughter—his smile real this time for certain. The crowd finally settles when his voice booms in the mic. Of the two of us—Noah is the loud one.
“Seriously, thank you guys!” he says, garnering a few more chants of his name and whistles. “Thank you, so much. That means a lot!”
After several more seconds, the chatter grows more manageable. I zoom in close on Noah’s face, and my chest fills because he looks like himself—the smile in the right place, and real. The scowl he’s worn for the last week as he’s kept us all out of his room is as if it never was. I miss this Noah—and I realize now that I see him this way—I was worried he wouldn’t come back.
“This team…you guys,” Noah says, turning enough to look at the boys he’s known for years—his brotherhood. “Being a part of The Tradition has been everything to me. Last week…”