“We’re going to see if we can work on a few of the blitz plays, teach Nico how to read them and avoid them. Think you’re up for helping?”
My father stands with his hand out for my brother, and after a second, Noah takes it and lets my dad help him up to a stand. He pulls his crutches under his arms and swings a step or two away from the bench.
“I’d love to,” he says.
I wish I’d gotten that on film. But maybe…maybe some things are meant to be private.
I watch them both begin to walk away, but before my brother gets too far, he stops, urging my dad to keep walking. Noah takes a few swinging strides back in my direction, stopping, his weight propped up on his crutches.
“Your video isn’t stupid,” he says.
“I know,” I say, proud that I had that response ready.
Noah smirks, looking down at his feet and nodding.
“I was a dick to say that the other night,” he says.
“I know,” I say again, twice as proud this time.
Noah laughs.
“I deserve that,” he says.
“Yes, you do,” I say.
“We good then?” he asks.
“Not even close,” I say. His eyes flash to mine, and I let my lip curl the tiniest bit on the right side, just to ease his conscience enough that he can get through today. I don’t want him off the hook, but I do want my brother back.
“A’right then,” he says, smiling enough that I know he knows I love him, and that I’m still pretty mad. He ambles toward the team—still very much his team, and he moves in next to our dad, trying to find his place now…whatever that is.
17
The evening air is unusually warm, and I’m thankful. Cornwall always holds the homecoming dance directly after the game. It’s one of the few incredibly typical things that we have here, but even still, it’s always made into something bigger than it really is or needs to be.
Paper decorations go up around the gym walls, and bleachers are pushed in to make room. Lights are off, special kinds brought in to set the mood. We hire a deejay. All of that is fairly normal, but then expectations are placed on everyone and everything. Dresses are the best. Couples are judged, while whispers begin to pick up the week before about who is going with whom, why they broke up with someone else, or if they’re going to hook up after the dance.
My dress is three years old. It’s white, eyelet style—the hem falling just above my knees. The sleeves are straps, and I left my sweater in my car since the weather was so nice. However, now all I can think about are my bare, freckled shoulders. The skirt is an A-line because those are the only types of dresses that don’t make me think about my hips. I wore it last year, when I came with Travis, but spent most of my time with Izzy. While this afternoon, when I slipped it on during my dash home before the game, I told myself I was fine with wearing the same thing two years in a row, now—sitting on the first row of bleachers with my mom and Travis’s mom, Linda—I feel like maybe I should have tried harder.
“What is Katie wearing,” my mom asks, almost a whisper.
My brother’s girlfriend will be wearing something designer and new. She does for everything. So will Izzy.
So will every other girl going to the dance.
“I don’t know,” I say, my attention on the field.
There are five minutes left in the fourth quarter, and we are up 38-14. Nico has had a spectacular game, running the ball in twice on his own and connecting with both Travis and Sasha for twenty-plus yard passes in the end zone. I’ve been splitting my time focusing on his game and the booth filled with maroon-and-white shirts up above. I left my camera recording on its own for the night on top of the box, but I amped up the mic, just in case it might be able to pick up their conversation. Now, though, I doubt I’ll even listen. Nico has been so impressive, there’s no way they don’t want him.
“I would have taken you shopping,” my mom says next to me.
I turn to respond, but see she’s still looking out on the field. I think her feelings are hurt that I didn’t ask. She’s just been so erratic the last few days that I didn’t want to push things with her. I wasn’t sure what version of my mom I would get—the one who says she’s fine with being off the social committee, who says she hates those women and can’t wait to see how great her life is without them, or the one who not-so-secretly cries about it all in the bathroom.
“I just really like this dress,” I settle on saying.
My mom looks over and runs her hand down the fabric, folding it over my knee and patting my leg.
“You look beautiful,” she says, and I can tell she means it. It warms my chest.