by Angel Lawson
I’ve seen him around school for days, of course. And it’s not like he’s any less intimidating in the uniform, especially not with the way he’s always sitting, slouched low, head down, as if there’s no one around to pay attention to. Every inch of him screamed ‘untouchable’.
Like this, he didn’t even feel like that boy I once knew. That version of Reynolds was sketched from long summer days spent watching him, the wiry muscles of his back shifting beneath thin shirts as I followed him and Emory around the neighborhood. It was painted with short winter evenings spent in the treehouse, watching his sly smirk as he emptied a day's worth of loot from the pockets of his loose hoodie, Emory taking a studious inventory. The old Reynolds was a hurricane full of dimples and reckless abandon, and he was just as untouchable then, but there was a thrill in knowing I had a chance to find myself in the eye of it, if only I stayed in one place long enough.
This new version of Reynolds is hard-edged and quiet, obscured by the storm cloud of blankness that sets his features. It’s almost scary to see, this new reserved stillness of him, as if he’d at one point shed his skin and floated away, and now something else is walking around with his older face and taller form.
But he had called out to me—Wait—in a voice that’s deeper, rougher than it used to be.
Yes, seeing him there had stunned me. But this had stunned me more.
I test the weight of the lipstick tube in my hand. There’s the panic that he’s seen—that he knows what’s inside—but louder than that are the questions. How? Why? I give the base two spins to the left and carefully pull the top off.
Three pills.
They’re all still there. I’d had a miniature meltdown today in Art when Mr. Kent had taken it away, apparently irked by the way I kept turning it over in my hands, eyes focused on it like a lifeline. I hadn’t planned to take them. But with the resurgence of gossip about me, I just needed the comfort of knowing I could. And then it’d been ripped away, and along with it, that soothing certainty that I had a way out if things got too bad. On top of that came the distress of knowing what would happen if Mr. Kent looked inside and reported it. Everyone would know. My parents. Emory. The administrators. Eventually, the whole school.
Reynolds had stolen it back, though. Had he done it because he knew it was mine, or was it just a coincidence?
I clutch the tube in my hand and turn back toward the house, unable to look a gift horse in the mouth. Reynolds stole it back because stealing is just what Reynolds does. The surety of that thought is almost as soothing as having the stash of pills in my pocket.
At least something about him hasn’t changed.
My proposal to Mr. Lee has an unexpected result. He’d shattered my ambition of investigating the years of systematic social inequality at Preston Prep, but he must have at least appreciated the spirit of it.
On Thursday, he stops me in the hallway and offers me a spot on the paper. “If you want it,” he adds.
“What’s the job?” I ask, as if I’m not going to say yes regardless of the position.
“Well, you got me thinking about some of the traditional roles here at Preston. While there are risks attached to certain topics, we definitely have a history mired in a deep patriarchy, and I think you’re just the person to push the boundary.” He pushes his wire glasses up his nose. “How would you like to be our first female sports reporter?”
“Sports?” The word comes out squeakier than I’d intended.
“Yep.” His grin is warm, a touch satisfied. “You’d cover the different teams and their schedules. Obviously, football is predominant at the moment, given the time of year, but it’s also girls’ softball season. And actually, water polo is co-ed.”
“I don’t know a lot about those sports,” I worry, flexing my hands around the straps of my bookbag. “Well, other than football. I guess I’ve picked up a few things after watching Emory play all these years, but you know that I can’t...” I feel my cheeks heat, “I can’t play any of those things.”
“And that’s exactly what I mean by pushing boundaries,” he says, scooting us toward the lockers when a group of students pass. “You’ll not only be the first female sports reporter here, but also the first...” He visibly struggles to find a non-insulting term.
“...with a physical disability,” I supply, grimacing.
“You don’t have to play the sports to report on them,” he concludes, “you just need to report the facts. Stats, a few highlights from the past games, and predictions for the next one. I’d also bet that you’d bring a refreshing angle.”
The truth is that, even though sports don’t interest me much, there’s no way I’d say no to this offer. One, because Mr. Lee is actually going out on a limb to make a change, and however small it is, it’s something. Two, because I’m determined to prove myself this year. It may not be the way I’d wanted, but it’s better than nothing.
“Okay,” I say, feeling a little nervous, “I’m in. Just tell me where to start.”
He hands me a notebook with the Preston Prep Red Devil logo on the front and a very official-looking pen. “Tomorrow night. First football game of the season. Let’s kick things off right.”
I clutch the notebook in my hand and swallow. “Got it. Tomorrow night.”
And that’s how I end up, twenty-four hours later, standing by the fence that surrounds the field. It’s my first time watching a football game anywhere but in the stands, next to my parents. I glance back at them now, decked head-to-toe in Devil spirit wear, eyes laser-focused on my brother out on the field.
Truthfully, I feel a strange sense of relief not having to sit with them. Sometimes it’s almost like they’re afraid to be too enthusiastic about these things when I’m around. No fun allowed. It never bothered me much before, but I’d been on the meds, the last three years spent blissfully unaware of their overprotectiveness. Now, I can feel exactly how smothering it’s been. There’s life here. The roar of the crowd. The booming announcer’s voice. The crackling energy in the air. For once, I’m able to feel it all.
No. Not just feel it.
I’m able to be a part of it.
It’s only a few minutes into the first quarter. I’m still dubiously inspecting the settings on the camera Mr. Lee let me borrow when the crowd suddenly jumps to their feet. The cries of excitement draw my eyes back on the field. I spot Emory’s jersey number—quarterback, number 17—just in time to see him jerk his elbow back, sending a spiraling throw down the field. I fumble for a moment to position the camera, hoping to catch something good, and see the receiver through the viewfinder—number 32—glancing over his shoulder as he races toward the end zone. I press the shutter frantically when the ball comes to him. He leaps in the air, catching it effortlessly against his chest and landing perfectly behind the white line.
The stands erupt into deafening celebration.
The band kicks into gear, sending the cheerleaders into a flurry of dance. I cheer along with the crowd, albeit mainly because I’m almost positive I actually got a shot of the touchdown.
I’m crushing this.
Once the ref blows his whistle, Emory rushes over to his teammate and they move into a ridiculous and obviously over-choreographed victory dance that makes me honk an involuntary laugh. They bang their helmets together and do the ritual slapping of butts in celebration.
I get a picture of that, too.
The rest of the half continues in much the same way, and I might not be big into the sportsball, but even I’m impressed. Preston is absolutely wiping the floor with the other team. Any concerns that this year’s team isn’t up to last year’s standards are sure to be crushed. I know from my brief but frenzied afternoon interviewing students about their predictions that there’s been some worry about this. I guess when you win once, everyone wants it to happen again. On more than one occasion, I’ve overheard Emory lamenting the loss of a few integral graduating seniors and thinking it would be hard to fill their shoes. Clearly, these worries
were unfounded.
When the buzzer finally blares, signaling halftime, I’m happy to put down my equipment and take a drag of the coffee I’d brought with me.
“Seriously, how many cups are you up to a day?” Sydney asks, bounding over from the cheerleaders. She’s got glitter on her face, and I swear her skirt is an inch shorter than everyone else's, but she looks cute.
“I’ve been sleeping like shit,” I admit. “Seemed like drinking a few extra cups could keep me alert for the game, although, with the way they’re playing, that hasn’t been an issue.”
We both look at the guys running into the field house. I spot Emory with his helmet off. He catches my eye and waves. I wave back.
So does Sydney. “Your brother is so hot.”
I grimace. “Shut up.”
“Facts are facts.” She shrugs. “Hey, do you think he’d go out with me now that Campbell is gone?”
The other team has a better chance of winning this game.
“You know he’s hung up on Campbell,” I say, shooting Sydney a sidelong glance. “I feel sorry for anyone he hooks up with while they’re still attached.”
“If that’s your way of warning me off of being Emory’s rebound, you’re doing a bad job of it.” Her eyes skim the rest of the guys as they trickle into the building. She nods at number 32. “Although he certainly grew up well.”
“What?” I squint, trying to figure out, “Who?”
Right at that moment, the player takes off his helmet, revealing a sweaty head of hair and a hard-edged face that makes my stomach dip.
“Reyn,” she says, “he’s freaking gorgeous.”
This is why I like Sydney. She doesn’t apologize for saying what she thinks, and she doesn’t treat me like I’m so fragile that one mention of Reynolds McAllister will shatter me.
Of course, it’s true. If the Reynolds I knew at age thirteen was cute, then this new, harder version of him is something way too intense for such a juvenile descriptor. He’s grown into his arms and legs, that sharpened face no longer bearing the blemishes or rosy cheeks of an adolescence that hadn’t even been awkward for him. I can see from here that his arms and thighs are firm and sculpted, and he moves with a graceful, easy power that some of the other guys lack.
Just as I’m watching him, his green eyes pass over us, only to skitter back, gaze locking onto mine for a tense moment as he walks leisurely toward the field house. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until he finally breaks my gaze, letting his head hang as he jogs the rest of the way.
I exhale in a rush. “I guess it’s not a surprise. He’s always been cute.”
She nods, concern flickering in her eyes when she looks at me. “So, what’s it been like? With Reyn being back and everything?”
This is another thing no one else would ask me. Sure, my mom and dad and Dr. Cordell want to know my feelings about everything, but this usually involves a long, in-depth analysis that leaves me feeling exhausted and vaguely like a specimen who’s been placed beneath a microscope. Sydney, however, just wants to know what’s happening. Talking to her never feels like a minefield.
“Once I got over the fact my parents kept it a secret from me, it’s been... okay.” I decide not to tell her about the yard—the cat and the lipstick and the obsidian. Something about it feels fragile and private, like it’s a burden for me and Reynolds to carry alone. “I mean, it’s weird seeing him on campus, but I’m pretty sure he’s, like, avoiding me?” I glance at Sydney, unsure. “So, I don’t really have to deal with him.”
The truth is that I’m trying not to let him eat up so much headspace, but it’s hard. He’s suddenly everywhere. Loping casually down the hallway at school. Hunched over his lunch in the cafeteria, his forearm curled almost protectively around his tray. Here, on the football field with Emory. Standing like a statue on his porch, visible from the window overlooking the kitchen sink. And speaking of windows—also in the bedroom that looks right into my own. It doesn’t help that his return coincides with my reduction in meds or the fact that the nightmares are back. His little glowing bedroom light is now the first thing I see when I wake up.
Okay.
Maybe I am letting him occupy a little headspace.
Sydney nods. “I think it’s cool you’re not letting him drag you down, you know? Preston Prep is your territory. The school obviously only let him come back because they needed him on the football team.”
I shift uncomfortably at the thought of us being adversarial. Is that how other people see it? Is that how Reynolds sees it?
“Well, Emory’s happy to have him back. You know he lost a lot of friends in the senior class last year, including Campbell. If Reynolds being back gives him a friend, and helps him have a winning season, it’s worth it.”
Syd tosses her sweaty arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Even after everything you’ve been through, you’re still amazing, you know that?”
I shrug and lift the camera. She instantly shifts into a seductive pose, pursing her lips and lowering her eyelids. “This is for the newspaper!” I laugh.
“Oh, I know.” She flips her skirt. “I thought you were all about pushing boundaries this year!”
I take a few more photos of my friend, knowing good and well I am not going to submit these to the paper.
The buzzer on the scoreboard blares, a warning that the second half is about to begin. I wave to Sydney as she skips back over to the cheer squad, but I keep my eye on the fieldhouse door. She’s right, this is a year for pushing boundaries.
I just haven’t figured out exactly how far I want to go.
Preston Prep wins big, setting a positive tone for the season. I snap photos of Emory’s wide smile when the buzzer sounds, unable to stop my own grin at the sight of him like this, all radiant with the glow of victory. I try to take photos of the other guys, too, which is how I find Reynolds’s face suddenly filling my lens. He’s at Emory’s side, my brother’s arm slung loose around Reynolds’ neck as they walk. They’re like an exercise in contrast—Emory’s animated radiance and Reynolds’ hard-edged stillness. His head’s hanging down, something relieved and tired in the curve of his shoulders as he wipes his face with his jersey, but then Emory says something into his ear.
Reynolds lifts his head with a responding smile, those two dimples blooming like the sun over his sharp cheeks. My finger mashes down on the shutter, capturing an image so zoomed-in—so entirely irrelevant to football—that I know I could never submit it.
Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile is gone, replaced by something solemn and placid.
It’s a tradition for the families and friends of the team to wait outside the stadium, congratulating the team for their win. I always hate doing it. Luckily, this time I have an excuse.
“Mr. Lee said I could drop the camera off at the desk in the boys' dorm,” I tell my parents. Mr. Lee is one of the resident supervisors that lives on campus. “I’ll meet you at the car when I’m done?”
Mom’s face creases with worry. “Are you sure it’s safe to walk across campus at night alone?”
I give her a peeved look. “Seriously?”
Thankfully, Dad squeezes her arm. “Hon, it’s fine. Plenty of students are going back to the dorms anyway.” He gives me an encouraging nod. “Just hurry back, okay?”
“Yes,” I reply, and can’t head off fast enough, before they can change their mind.
It’s always depressing, after meeting the team. All of them are usually alight with excitement for their after-game plans, a whole night of fun teen antics spread out promisingly before them.
I just ride home with my parents, like a loser. Again.
Emory always has some post-game party or hang out. Last year, he would have gone wherever Campbell wanted, usually to a kegger at her parents’ house on the lake. He’d said he had plans with Aubrey Willis this weekend, so God only knows what he’ll get up to, but he’ll probably come home reeking of BWS.
Beer, weed, and sex.
<
br /> Whatever happens, I’m sure Sydney will have all the gossip in the morning. I never go to parties. For one, I’m never invited, and no one ever asks me to come with them. But even if all those stars aligned, my parents would never let me. God, Emory himself would shit a brick if I showed up at something like that. I can just imagine the look on his face. He wouldn’t drag me home, he’d just end the party, right then and there, and these days? Emory absolutely had the power to do that.
I cross the quad toward Hayden, the boys' dormitory. Like Dad said, there are plenty of other students out. About half the students live on campus and most of those attend the home games. I follow a few guys into the dorm, thanking the one who patiently holds the door as I slowly climb the steps. I receive more than a few questioning looks, which is fair. Vandy Hall at the boys' dorm, at night? To see a guy?
Nope, just here on official Chronicle business.
God, I’m a loser.
I remove the memory card before leaving the camera in the office where Mr. Lee told me to, adding a note that I’d have my article written up by Monday. A weird feeling passes over me as I head back outside, the quad quieter than before. I close my eyes and inhale the late summer air. So, this must be what independence feels like—warmth and silence and calm—no questions or eyes or wild internal calculation as to how to justify what I’m doing. I’m still reveling in this as I approach the darkened area near the bell tower, the whole area shaded by the thick branches of ancient oaks.
I know all about the Devil’s tower, particularly the rumors surrounding the Stairway to Hell. It’s a stupid and cheesy name for a hookup spot, but the Devils love tradition, especially if it sets them apart from the rest of the student body. Obviously, I’ve never been up there—the thought alone makes me snort a laugh—but Sydney says that there’s a beam across the top where the Devils carve their initials, adding slash marks underneath for each of their conquests. It’s not the only way the Devils claim the girls they’re with. There’s also the Devil’s Marks—strategically-placed hickies under girls’ ears. There’s also some very specific rumors about ‘tests’. With Emory in the group, I’ve done my best to completely avoid that winding path of gossip. The less I know about my brother’s sex life, the better.