Leaves scratched and swirled around my feet as the autumn air seeped through my thin sweatshirt. I stuffed my hand into my pocket, pulled out the required one-dollar student admission, and handed it to the kid working the ticket booth. All around me, groups of teens and adults alike chattered and scurried about, purchasing last-second snacks or just catching up about the new school year. I brushed past several groups, released a few amicable hellos, and headed toward the stands. The pre-game show was due to start any second.
When I had told my dad where I was headed, he had offered a muffled “Really?” without looking up from the TV. He took another pull on his bottle of beer, shrugged, and asked if I needed a ride, although I knew that was certainly just a formality. There would not be a true ride to the game, despite the offer. Mom would be of no use in the transportation department, either. Feeling unwell, she had clambered up to bed before the sun had even set. I shrugged him off, told him I would be home later, not that he asked, patted Henry’s head, and headed out the door to begin my two-mile walk.
Most Friday nights, I was content just kicking back in my room with the TV and Henry as my sole companions. Back in Arizona, one of the crew would come over to listen to music or just hang out, but not here. It was okay, though. More often than not, I was content in my world, shoving cheese curls equally into Henry’s drooling muzzle and my own mouth as we lived vicariously through the television characters.
Not lately, though.
Only two short weeks ago, everything changed. Suddenly, those solar-system curtains and tiny TV seemed inadequate companions; I no longer wanted to sit in that room alone. Instead, all I could think about were ways to see her. Even if that meant braving the over-enthusiastic jocks and preps at the high school football game just for a glimpse of her.
It had been an ordinary day, really, the day that changed everything. I had rolled out of bed, rumbling and groaning at the blaring sound of the annoying alarm. The first day of school—a day of new sneakers, new haircuts, excitement—but for me, it was a day that I couldn’t sleep until ten a.m. As I hauled myself off to school, I checked my class schedule again. Only one class from the morning schedule caught my attention—art. It was the one class that didn’t drown me in monotony or endless, pointless paperwork. It was the one place where I felt like I could actually shine, maybe even excel.
Little did I know that it was the place where my life would change, forever magnetized around one girl. For when the teacher called that name to sit beside me, my whole world did an irrevocable backflip.
Not that it was love at first sight…no, such things didn’t exist in my mind. Love at first sight was for either overly-dramatic girls or for overly-pussy guys. I didn’t get a pitfall in my stomach. Angels didn’t start singing when I saw her. There was no sappy love song playing as our eyes met. And yet, there was certainly…something. Something that told me I had to know this girl, see what she was all about.
Luckily for me, I got the chance during the first project. For the first time in my life, I was beyond jittery to talk to a girl. I still cringe at the thought of those first cheesy lines I fed her. Yet, despite all of that, something seemed to click for us. Within the first two weeks of school, we had developed a comfortable ease for which there was no replacement. We blended together perfectly on the artist’s canvas, complementing each other’s weaknesses and strengths. We found ourselves seamlessly finding each other at every possible opportunity in the hallway. We found each other yearning to learn more, to know more, about each other.
So there I was on a Friday night, joining the peppy crew of band moms and football parents to cheer on our school’s team. Only a year ago, it would have been me on the field, running and tackling to the cheer of the crowd. Yet tonight I was less interested in the number of touchdowns as that brown-haired girl in the band uniform sporting the clarinet. As I climbed the bleachers, I quickly scanned for a seat. I finally spotted Logan, an acquaintance from my science class. He graciously asked if I wanted to sit with him and his family in the bleachers. He was there to cheer on his girlfriend, the star majorette. I nodded as I caught sight of Emma and clamored to my seat. Only three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have recognized this girl if I walked right into her. Now, she was becoming a magnetic force in my life.
The cacophony of instruments marched in intricate patterns as they honked out the alma mater and the “Star Spangled Banner.” With the height of my seat in the bleachers, Emma was barely a dot. Nonetheless, I could pick her out by her walk, her stance, by her hair gently lifting in the breeze. It would be the first time I ever appreciated the grace and beauty of any marching band member, certainly not something typically associated with a “band nerd” as they are affectionately called.
Once the pre-game show ended, the band members took their seats near the bottom of the stadium bleachers. I listened as Logan mumbled some comments about his hot girlfriend, but I was barely listening. All I could think about was what I would say to Emma after the game, if she had spotted me, and whether we would get to spend some time together. Outside of school, this would be our first “event” together, even if it just consisted of me watching her from afar. Still, when she had asked if I was coming to the game, I just couldn’t say no. Those eyes could get me to say yes to almost anything.
Beside me, Logan’s parents left to bring back some nachos. I felt a twinge of jealousy as his dad patted him on the back and asked if he wanted to come along or stay in the stands. Although most kids couldn’t be paid to sit with their parents at the game, I thought he was lucky. His parents were a little nerdy in their almost-identical polo shirts and khakis, but at least they were there. At least they had given him more than a superficial, one-word response and a half-hearted offer to drop him off. At least they knew where he was and when he would be home.
The game continued rather uneventfully. A few touchdowns, an injury in which the player limped off the field, a few dozen songs from the band, and a mass exodus from the stands all took place before the moment I was waiting for. The band cleared the bleachers, filing out to head back to the school and hang up their uniforms. I headed to the gate where they were exiting.
“Hey! You made it!” she shouted as she anxiously walked up to me, not even trying to hide her surprise and enthusiasm.
“Of course I did. You didn’t think I was going to miss that new, awesome routine to “Thriller,” did you?”
“Really?” she said, with a sarcastic tone and grin. “You’re a marching band enthusiast?”
“Um, yeah, why else do you think I came?” I offered unabashedly.
“So that you could go for ice cream with the coolest band nerd there is,” Emma declared with a serious tone, although a smile glinted in her eyes.
“Oh really? Well, where is she?” I prodded, glancing around the crowd. She playfully shoved me.
“Seriously, do you want to come? After we change, Jenn’s mom is giving some of us a ride to get ice cream…band nerd tradition I guess.”
“You guess?” I asked.
“Well, I’m apparently not the ‘coolest’ band nerd, so I’m not sure I have all of the inner workings down,” she teased.
“Well, this is true. But I guess for now I can trust your judgment,” I added slyly. “But how will the other band groupies feel about an imposter joining in?”
“We’ll find you a triangle or something, and you can just pretend you’re interested in joining,” Emma offered.
“A triangle? You think this much awesomeness is only qualified to play the triangle? I’m insulted,” I implored.
“Okay, okay. How about the cymbals?”
“A little better. I suppose.”
I glanced around, noticing that the band had pretty much cleared out and were all animatedly walking back to the school. I figured that I better hurry up and decide.
“Well, yeah, I’ll come. But can I ride with you?”
“Of course,” Emma retorted matter-of-factly. “Did you have someone else in mind?”<
br />
“Well, Mr. Ferguson does look like he could use a friend,” I schemed about the less-than-spry band director.
“Keep it up and I’ll go tell him you need a ride,” Emma joked.
“Keep it up and maybe I’ll go ask myself,” I snapped back.
“Okay, seriously, I need to get moving or Jenn is going to flip. Want to walk with me?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I replied. I sauntered beside her as I reached for her clarinet.
“No way, buddy. No one holds Elsie but the pro,” she said, pointing to herself.
“Elsie? Seriously?” I demanded, eyebrows raising.
“What’s wrong with Elsie?”
I rolled my eyes, shook my head, and just sighed.
Emma laughed good-naturedly and said, “Yeah, I guess it’s a bit pathetic. But hey, I’ll have you know that my elementary band director thought it was a very cool name,” she avowed in desperation.
“And how old was he? Eighty?”
“No,” she replied coyly. “She was eighty-two. But still, she was pretty hip and ‘in the know’.”
“Oh, of course she was,” I jeered.
As we approached the school, Emma playfully bumped into me with her shoulder. “Seriously, thanks for coming tonight. It was cool to have you there. My parents were so upset that they couldn’t come tonight—funeral in Ohio for one of my dad’s old high school friends. They left me with my grandma so that I could make it to the game. My mom is a sap for school events. Of course, she gave me a camera to bring with me so I could get lots of pictures for her. She’ll be kind of p.o’d that I ‘forgot’ it at Grandma’s.” Emma giggled. “It was nice, though, to know that I had someone up there for my game. Lame as it sounds, I always get sort of nervous.”
“Well, it was cool to watch you. Seriously.”
“Really?” Emma asked, looking up at me.
“Oh, you thought I meant you? I was talking to Elsie. She did a phenomenal job tonight. Just superb,” I responded, feigning an air of sophistication.
“You’re an idiot,” Emma said, stabbing my ribs with the mouthpiece.
“Go get ready so we can get this ice cream. I’m starving,” I confessed, rubbing my rib from the jab.
“Okay, see you in a few. As long as Jenn didn’t already leave us behind.” Emma hurried into the school, taking off her hat as she did to save time. I waited on the sidewalk in front of the school, glancing up at the stars as I waited for Emma to return. It was hard to imagine that only a few weeks ago this girl was a complete stranger to me, someone I wouldn’t even recognize on the street. Yet there we were, and I felt like we had known each other forever. A few minutes later, Emma and her friends came giggling out of the school as Jenn’s mom pulled up in her minivan. Emma waved me over as she told Jenn’s mom who I was. We hopped in, heading off for one of many ice cream trips over the next few years. My fifteen-year-old, immature self had no way of knowing it, but this was the first night of many that we would continue to grow together.
* * * *
Another buzzer jolts me to attention as I realize the picture is still in my hands. Frank is still snoring, although the buzzer momentarily causes him to rustle. A guard heads to our cell to check on us. It’s time for inspections before we can go outside for some free time.
“How you doing, bud?” the stern guard offers. Ever since the news had spread, I’ve noticed a duller edge to the guards’ normally blunt personalities. I wouldn’t call it soft or even friendly, but just relaxed toward me. A sense of empathy radiates in their eyes even if their words don’t say it.
“Fine, but I don’t want to go out today. Don’t want to risk any trouble, if you know what I mean. Can I just stay in?”
“Yeah, guess there’ll be plenty of time for some fresh air soon, huh? Don’t blame you. But poke Frank, and see if he has another opinion.”
“Doubt it,” I offer as I slowly rise from my seat and head toward the sloppy, drooling Frank. It’s hard to believe that tomorrow this won’t be my reality. But then, what will be? The prospect is almost unnerving.
Chapter Six: Hot-Chocolate Interrogations
Emma
Memories
“Emma! Emma, wake up!” I felt a warm hand shaking me as I groaned and threw my face back into the pillow.
“Emma! It’s a snow day! Get your lazy butt up!”
I peeked up through squinted eyes at my mom’s familiar face. After the morning fog cleared, I slowly sat up, rustled my hair, and directed my gaze toward the window.
“Snow? Already? What….it’s like…October third?” I quizzed my mom.
“October fourth, but yeah, snow! School’s cancelled.”
“What time is it?”
“Time to get up. I made pancakes. So hurry up, then I have to get back to work,” she ordered as she ripped the covers off my bed. Cold air abruptly slapped my skin, jolting me out of bed. I leered at my alarm clock.
“Seven-thirty! Are you crazy, Mom? I’m supposed to sleep in on a snow day!”
“You did get to sleep in,” she articulated.
“Yeah, a whole hour! Wow. Thanks,” I quipped. The smell of pancakes softened my mood a bit, nonetheless. I stumbled to the bathroom and then to the kitchen.
My mom had the habit of waking me up early on snow days ever since I was in kindergarten. She said when she was young, she always loved getting up early on snow days so that she could make the most of it. Apparently, she thought I would want to do the same. Although I loved the prospect of sleeping in until whenever, I begrudgingly appreciated her zest.
In the kitchen, I stared out our glass doors onto the deck. Overnight, we had gotten at least ten inches of snow. It was early in the season for this kind of snow, even for Pennsylvania. The forecasters had mentioned a storm in passing, but I don’t think they predicted that it would hit us this hard. I smiled to myself, wondering if he would actually come today. I figured he would. He didn’t seem like the type who would break a promise.
Sitting at the table, I doused my pancakes in syrup and shoved some into my mouth. My mom was also seated at the table, eating her pancakes as she talked.
“So, what are you going to do today?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe catch up on some reading or get ahead in my algebra book,” I said nonchalantly. This was what I usually did on a snow day, being the overachiever that I was. I didn’t say it, but deep down I hoped today would be different. Suddenly, equations and literary classics didn’t seem like an exciting afternoon—at least not in comparison to those brown eyes I had already fallen for.
“Books? Homework? Emma, sometimes I think you’re not my child,” Mom mused. Mom had been a wild child, from the bits and pieces I could gather. She wasn’t into drugs and never got arrested, but Grandma and Grandpa told me that she gave them their share of gray hairs when she was young. Although the motherly side of her was thankful to have a child that followed the “letter of the law” to a T, I think her inner teenager craved some excitement for me.
“Why don’t you do something fun? Go outside in the snow or something. Or call up the girls and see if they want to come over,” she said.
“I thought you had to work,” I insisted.
“I do. But I don’t like the silence. I work best with rowdiness. It helps give me…energy,” Mom alleged with a grin. That was my mom for you—always craving chaos, even when she was working.
Mom was a novelist. She never “hit it big,” so to speak, but she made a living. She always said she didn’t do it for the money. She just loved being able to express herself and to have her voice heard. Plus, it afforded her the luxury of working from home. Unlike some children who found themselves in a day care from nine to five, my mom stayed home with me. Things had to be a bit crazy for her. She would squeeze in a chapter between a load of laundry and cartoons. When my dad came home from work at the law firm, she always had a hot meal on the table for the three of us. She always managed to get her motherly and wifely duties done and s
omehow still have time for her writing. She was one of those people who worked well under pressure.
“Actually, Mom,” I began after chewing another bite of pancake, “there is someone who might be coming over…” I paused for a second, my stomach flinching from the adrenaline of my terror, and a moment of recognition dawned on her face.
“Oh, I see,” she said mischievously. A broad smile gleamed on her face. “So do I know him?”
“No,” I added curtly. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut?
“What’s his name?”
“Corbin.”
“Corbin what?” Mom was way too good at this interrogation thing.
“Corbin Jones. He’s new in town. He just came here from Arizona this summer.”
“So when’s he coming?”
“Why?”
“Well, I want to make sure I don’t miss him. I don’t want you running him out of here before I can get my hands on him,” she smirked.
“Mom!” I shouted.
“I didn’t mean literally, calm down,” she added coyly. My mother was certainly a nut sometimes. This was going to be interesting.
“Mom, I know what you meant. I just don’t want you…doing what you do,” I added.
“And what do I do?”
“Overwhelm people,” I observed, without restraint.
“Not me,” she winked again. “I’ll behave, don’t worry. I don’t want to scare him just yet if he’s new here. I’ll wait at least a few weeks,” she laughed. It sounded more like a witch’s cackle to me. “When’s he coming?”
“I don’t know. He might not even show up,” I glumly remarked.
“He’ll come. You better get your butt moving in case he shows up soon!” she exclaimed. “You’re worried about me scaring him off, and here you sit, with baggy man pants on and hair that looks like ‘jungle girl’.” My mother always knew how to boost my self-confidence.
“You’re probably right,” I admitted. I cleaned off my plate and loaded it into the dishwasher, plodding to the shower afterward. “You better get back to work,” I yelled over my shoulder.
Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Page 4