Kyle kept drumming on Stacey: liar, slut, liar, slut. Phoebe and the Tracies were there, too, nodding and tapping their nails on the table: Bitch’ll be sorry. Bitch’ll be sorry.
Ben was quiet, just listening. Lindsey picked at her food, then said she had to finish some homework before next period. We all made plans to hit the thrift store after school and get outfits for Spring Fling. When Ben heard this, he smiled for the first time all day.
In two minutes, the tone will sound to end my journalism class and the school day. Mr. Jessup shot down any discussion of the events at hand, insisting instead that we spend the hour working on next week’s blog posts for our online student news site. I wanted to tell him that there was actual journalism going on in the parking lot, but decided against it. Sometimes it’s easier just to go with the flow. From my seat by the window, I can see two more news vans have now joined Sloane’s team (Thirteen’s on the Scene!) from Des Moines at the edge of the parking lot: one from Cedar Rapids and one from Sioux City.
When class is over, I stand by the window for a moment, watching as the cameraman from Cedar Rapids frames up a shot. He centers squarely on the fifteen-foot-tall Buccaneer plastered across the side of the gymnasium. It was painted by the Buccaneer Boosters last year with materials donated by Christy’s dad, who owns Hank’s Hardware and Lumber. This single act of goodwill by her father (whose name, surprisingly, is Harold, not Hank) started a campaign called Buccs Buy Local! Instead of driving out to Ottumwa and shopping at Home Depot, people started coming back to Hank’s and asking Harold for help finding stuff in his cramped storefront on Second Avenue. Christy says it saved the business, which had all but dried up. This town loves its basketball team. I remember Dooney’s face in the hallway on Monday. Loyal. I like that.
I take a deep breath and gather up my stuff.
Christy and Lindsey are coming from yearbook and fall in next to me. Rachel meets us at the stairs with her flute case, fresh from band.
“This time next week, we’ll be headed to the field to run drills,” Rachel moans.
“Bring on the pain!” Christy shouts and pounds on her locker like she’s King Kong.
Lindsey laughs. “I’m going to remind you of that when you’re puking next week.”
“How long did you make it during first practice last year? Must’ve been at least a quarter mile.” I poke Christy in the ribs, and she jumps, then tries to scramble after me. I spin around in the hall, and run smack into a six-foot-four tower of human. It’s Ben.
“Hi,” he says.
I smile up at him. “Oh. Hi.”
He leans down and pecks me on the lips. Christy immediately makes a barfing sound and starts tossing loose papers over our heads from the landfill that is her locker. Rachel whistles with her fingers in her mouth. I hear LeRon down the hall holler, “Get a room.” It’s been like this all day—everyone is wound up.
It’s overcast as we head into the parking lot. Ben holds my hand and explains that he swapped trucks with his mom today. “I can drive and drop everyone off back here,” he offers. “That cool with you?”
I nod. “How come you have your mom’s car?”
Ben glances around for half a second, taking stock of who’s within earshot. Christy is grabbing an umbrella from her trunk and dumping her backpack. Rachel is laughing with Lindsey about finding a tie-dyed dress for the dance. I hold up a hand to stem the tide of his explanation. I get it. No words needed.
There is relief in his eyes as he opens the back door of his mom’s Explorer for Lindsey and heaves a laundry basket over the headrests into the space behind the seats. It’s filled with unopened packages of tube socks. The whole team wore those awful black socks pulled up to their knees during the last three regular games of the season. A show of solidarity. Sock-erstition. At the time, I wondered where they’d come from. Now I know: Adele’s shopping habit strikes again.
Will calls my name, and I see him walking up with Tyler as Christy, Rachel, and Lindsey pile into Ben’s backseat. “Where you going?” he asks me. “I thought you were gonna drive me home.”
“’Sup, Pistol?” Ben holds out a fist and Will grins as he bumps back, glancing at Tyler to make sure he caught the exchange. Tyler is appropriately impressed.
“Meant to text you,” I say. “We’re going to the thrift store. Can you get a ride home with Tyler?”
“He wanted a ride home with us.”
I turn to Ben. “Sorry. Looks like I have to run carpool first. Meet you there?”
“We’ve got room.” Ben jerks his head for Tyler and Will to follow him and pops open the hatch behind the backseat. “Just don’t flip off any cops or anything. Everybody’s supposed to have a seat belt.”
Tyler just stands there, staring. “Dude . . .”