“Dooney’s party?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t know what it means?”
He shakes his head. “No. A bunch of the varsity guys have been using it.”
“Which ones?”
He huffs a huge breath and rubs his hands on his face. “Why do you care so much?”
“Why don’t you care at all?”
He chews his cheek and drops his head. “Dooney, Deacon, Greg, Randy—”
“So basically, everyone who was arrested this week.”
He nods, miserably. “But more, like LeRon and Reggie. Kyle, too.”
I lean over him and delete the words he almost posted. “You do know you’re not the only person who can see what you comment online, right? You may recall that whole thing about the police collecting people’s phones?”
He groans. “Jeez. Fine. Okay, Mom.”
“If you want, we can certainly talk to Mom about it.” This gets his attention. “Those pictures that girl posted? What’s her name? Emily? They’re not for you. They’re not your property. You aren’t entitled to use them however you please. How many other pictures did you rank?”
He grunts and plugs his earbuds back into the computer. “Why are you so hysterical about this?”
Something in me snaps. I grab the neck of his T-shirt and yank it toward me, almost pulling him out of his chair. My voice is a low, steady whisper. “I am not hysterical about anything. I am concerned that my brother is turning into an asshole.” I push him back into the chair. “Delete every rank you posted on a picture this morning.”
“Or what?” he counters. “You’ll tell Mom?”
“Nope.” I walk across his room and step over a pair of boxer shorts into the hallway. “You’ll deal directly with Dad on this one.”
As I close the door to my own room I hear what sounds like a shoe hitting the wall. I grab my phone and text Rachel.
I need to move my legs before I start using my fists.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
twenty-five
BY THE TIME Lindsey joins me on the soccer field at school, I’m already in the middle of my first full line drill. Rachel and Christy are stretching and waiting by the goal nearest to the parking lot. I push buttons to clear and start the stopwatch on my wrist, then put my hands on top of my head to keep from folding in half.
Deep breaths.
Walking in circles.
Christy, bitching.
“Line drills? On a Saturday? How the hell did you let her talk you into this?” she asks Rachel.
“You’ll be glad we did it come Monday.” Rachel jumps up and grabs her own ankle, pulling it from behind to stretch her quads.
“Might as well get the puking out of the way while Coach Lewis isn’t watching,” teases Lindsey. Christy doesn’t even retort, just leans over in a hurdler’s stretch and moans softly into her own kneecap.
“Forty-five seconds, ladies, then we go again.” My breathing slows, but my pulse is still racing. I can’t get the image of Will typing hashtags out of my head.
Line drills consist of running the length of the field from one end to the other in increasing distances: from the goal line to the penalty box and back, then out to the middle of the field and back, and so on, bending down to touch each line with a hand as the trips across the field grow successively longer. By the time Christy touches the goal line at the far end of the field the first time, she is doubled over with cramps and drops to her knees. Rachel, Lindsey, and I tap the near goal line as this happens, and Rachel yells no as loudly as she can. If Coach Lewis sees anyone stop, she adds another drill.
I am already exhausted from two full rounds, but I turn and follow Rachel and Lindsey down to where Christy is kneeling and heaving. Lindsey and I both take an arm and pull her to her feet, dragging her toward the goal while Rachel shouts threats and encouragements, alternating stick and carrot:
You’re almost finished!
Can’t do that Monday, or Coach will make you run it again!
Don’t give up! Go, go, GO!
Christy collapses on her back, and I clear my stopwatch again. “Four more to go. We’ve got forty-five seconds on the clock.”
“I . . . can’t . . . ,” Christy says, panting.
“You can,” I say, offering her a hand. “Get up. Walk. Breathe. You’re the best goalie in our conference, but not if you can’t turn on the speed.”
Reluctantly, she gives me her hand, and I pull her up. “We’re running in twenty,” I say.
“I hate you,” gasps Christy.
“You’ll love her on Monday,” Rachel says grimly. “We all will.”
Then I count down from ten and we go again.
Miraculously, we all finish another four complete drills without seeing what Christy ate for breakfast, then collapse next to the goal breathing hard.
Christy pulls a handful of grass and tosses it in my hair. “What brought this on, Weston?”