All Lined Up

by Cora Carmack

  “Thanks Dad.”

  He nods, and starts piling various barbecued and fried meats onto his plate. I’m not all that hungry, but I do the same because I know he’s trying. He’s still Dad, though, so even with the thoughtful meal, we sit down on the couch in front of his giant television, and he turns on game film.

  He’s nervous about Homecoming. We’re 3–1, and this game could set the tone for the rest of the season. It could decide whether the team bounces back from the drama with Levi (and the drama I caused with Carson), or whether it will crumble under the weight of it all. This one game could dictate the rest of Dad’s career in college football, or potentially ruin it. Rusk only signed him on a one-year contract, and even though nothing that’s happened has been his fault, they could easily refuse to renew his contract if they want to.

  And then there’s no telling what would happen to us, to me. If he moved to some other university, would he make me go with him? Would he trust me enough to let me stay at Rusk? Not that I actually want to stay at Rusk, but it’s a better option than a lot of the universities he could end up at.

  He needs the win. Carson needs the win.

  Hell, I think I need it, too.

  After dad has rewound one portion of the film three times to watch it again and again, I finally cut in and say, “It’s gonna be okay, Dad. The team is ready. Carson is ready. It will all work out.”

  He finishes chewing the brisket he’d just scooped into his mouth and surveys me. “Isn’t it supposed to be my job to say everything’s gonna be okay?”

  I shrug. “That’s one job with plenty of work to go around. Besides . . . you know what you’re doing. You’re wasting energy second-guessing yourself.”

  “Some days I think I’d be better off sticking my head in the sand and rolling the dice. That’s how much I know what I’m doing.”

  I shoot him a half smile. “Interesting visual. I’d like to see that.”

  He shakes his head, shoveling another helping of brisket into his mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you don’t like football. Never have.”

  “Not never, Dad. There were moments when I really loved it, actually.”

  “Coulda fooled me.”

  “It’s not easy coming second to a sport, Dad. You’ll have to forgive me if I handled it badly sometimes.”

  He sets down the remote that he was holding in his left hand so he could stop and manipulate the film as needed.

  “Is that what you think? That football was more important to me than you?”

  I consider his question for a moment. Yes, a big part of me thought that, but that was the side of me that tended toward dramatics.

  “It’s not that I think you saw football as more important, but more that you connected better to football than you ever did to me. You understood the game, and it understood you back. And I was left on the sideline, confused and on the outside of both.”

  He whistles softly through his teeth. “I really screwed up this whole parenting thing, didn’t I? You go years thinking you did all right, never realizing just how much damage you caused.”

  “You did the best you could, Dad. I had a roof and a bed and food and necessities . . . that’s more than a lot of people can say. Besides, I didn’t turn out that bad.”

  “You turned out just fine, but I don’t know how much of it was my doing.” He considers me for a moment and adds, “You look so much like your mother. Just like her, except for the height. You’d tower over her.”

  I could count on one hand the number of times he’d mentioned Mom in front of me.

  Careful to keep my gaze directed down toward my food, I ask, “Do you miss her?”

  He blows out a breath, his eyes similarly fixed on the game on the TV. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I gave myself the option of missing her. I’ve been wondering, though, if she would have handled this all better. If she would have known what to do.”

  Good to know the whole clueless thing doesn’t go away with age.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over stuff like that, Dad. She didn’t stick around. You did. It’s crazy to let yourself lose to a memory.”

  “When did you get to be so smart?”

  “Mistakes can be awfully good teachers.”

  He hums, pondering that for a moment, and then goes back to his meal.

  In the silence, I gather up the courage to say something that I’ve been thinking about for a few days.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  “In February, I’m going to Dallas to audition for a summer dance intensive with the San Francisco Conservatory of Dance.”

  He sets down the remote again. “You are?”

  “Yes,” I reply firmly. “I know you’re not comfortable with me going to college in another state. But I’m not comfortable doing nothing when I know positively that dancing is what I want to do with my life. As I see it, this is a compromise. If I’m accepted, it’s a six-week program with the added opportunity to do a choreography residency where I’d get to create a piece of my own to be danced by the workshop dancers. It can be a trial run. A stepping-stone. And if things go okay, maybe you’ll see that I can handle going to school out of state.”

  He stares at me for several long moments, and I can tell he’s trying to be reasonable. We’ve just had possibly the longest, most civil conversation of our lives, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

  “Is this about McClain?” he asks. “Are you doing this because you’re mad at me?”

  I smile and choke down a sad laugh. “No, Dad. It’s not about that. It’s about me. I need to learn how not to walk away, how to fight for what I want, because if I don’t learn soon, I’ll have nothing left to fight for. This is about me learning how to take after the parent that stuck around instead of the one who gave up.”

  He looks away from me, clears his throat, and when he looks back, the skin around his eyes has gone pink.

  “You know, when your mom left I remember wondering how I was going to manage alone. Eighteen years seemed like such a long time to be responsible for another person, and now it feels like the clock ran out in no time. I guess I just thought I’d have more time before you grew up and stopped needing me.”

  “I don’t think that’s something I’ll ever grow out of, Dad. Whether I live here or a thousand miles away.”

  He swallows, nodding his head a few times, and says, “February, then?”

  “Yeah. And then end of May is when I’ll go if I’m accepted.”

  His head keeps bobbing, processing, and I wonder if he’s just humoring me because I’m sad. I think he surprises us both when he decides. “After the season is over, we’ll take a look together, then, maybe talk to your dance teachers. Make sure you’ve got the best possible chance of getting in.”

  I can feel the tears welling again, always so close to the surface these days, and he must see them too, because he clears his throat and turns toward the safety of the television again.

  I stay for another hour or two, watching the film with Dad. After he’s had his fill watching film of the other team, he switches and watches his own team, trying to pinpoint any weaknesses he might have missed standing on the sidelines. I watch for a little while, but when all my eyes do is follow Carson, I decide to leave him to it.

  I’M FEELING A little better on Friday, which is why I’m still wearing normal clothes instead of pajamas when Stella knocks on the window that looks in my bedroom from the side of the house.

  I pull back the curtains, and when I see her, I pull up the glass to let her in.

  “What happened to knocking on the door like a normal person?”

  She pops through the small opening with perfect agility and says, “When I spoke to your dad yesterday, he led me to believe that you’re barely leaving your bed. So I thought this would be easier.”

  I open my arms wide and gesture around the room, specifically toward the desk in the corner, where I’d been camped out reading.r />
  “I’m fine, as you can see.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve done nothing but study and work and dance all week.”

  “That’s a fairly accurate depiction of how I’ve spent the last several years of my life, so I’m not sure exactly what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m worried about dragging you along to the homecoming bonfire and pep rally with me tonight, so I don’t have to go alone like a complete loser.”

  “Really? That’s the last thing I want to do tonight.”

  “Too bad. I’m calling in another stamp.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “Stamp of approval. I know for a fact that you don’t have work or dance tonight, and it’s time you got out of this house and got back to being a normal college student.”

  “Normal college students frequently take naps and eat junk food and watch movies and don’t leave their house all weekend. That was my plan. Don’t mess with my plan!”

  “Too late. The stamp has already been issued, and you can’t say no.”

  “You are the worst.” I throw myself onto my bed, wishing I’d changed into pajamas after all.

  “You mean best.”

  “No, I mean worst. You suck.”

  “I don’t suck. I . . . I don’t know what the opposite of suck is, but I’m that.”

  “Awesome?”

  “Yes. Awesome. That’s what I am, and you will thank me for this.”

  “Unlikely.” I crawl up my bed and bury my face in my pillow while Stella starts ransacking my closet and throwing clothes on top of me as if I’m not even there.

  Chapter 29

  Carson

  The team is as loud and excited as I’ve ever seen them. As we file onto the makeshift stage they’ve set up not far from the bonfire, they’re chanting, “Bleed red,” and jumping around, slapping each other on the shoulders. I jump when everyone around me does, so that I don’t stick out, but I’m too tired to chant.

  I ran myself ragged this week, not just because it’s an important game, but because it was the only way I could find any semblance of quiet. Torres starts up an “impromptu” rap that I heard him practicing in the locker room a few days ago, but we all humor him, responding when he calls for it and cheering him on. When I get to the middle of the stage, I squeeze in next to Silas, who stands silent, smiling, but not getting caught up in the hype.

  “Ready, QB?”

  I nod, and he leaves me alone, thankfully.

  The gathered crowd is huge, and we wave while they scream. Well, I wave while most everyone else shows off.

  Coach looks amused, and he nods when our eyes catch. When all the players have filed onto the stage, he steps up to the microphone.

  “Good evening, Wildcats!”

  Hands raise up in the crowd like a rolling wave, curved into claws and shaking as the people yell.

  Coach lifts his hands, and the crowd settles down.

  “I’m not one for speeches.”

  A few feet behind me Torres calls out, “Riiiiight.”

  The crowd laughs and Coach whirls around like he’s searching for the culprit. Torres is the picture of innocence, and I sigh and shake my head when he grins at me.

  “Fine. I’m not one for speeches that don’t involve yelling.”

  I crack a smile.

  “Last night, as I was watching game film, my daughter told me that mistakes make good teachers.” My chest tightens, and the cool fall air burns even sharper in my lungs. “We’ve had our fair share of mistakes this season, but these young men behind me have learned a lesson from every single one of them.” He smiles. “I can’t promise you that we won’t have more mistakes in the future. They happen, in life and in football. But a strong team, and a strong man, learns how to grow. Anybody who has watched this team from their first game can tell how much growing they’ve done. And I can guarantee you that the Hawks know it, too.” He raises up his hand in the Wildcat claw, and the crowd follows, screaming. Over them, he yells into the mic, “Tomorrow is our time to take the lessons we’ve learned and do some teaching of our own! Now, go wild!”

  The crowd roars, and the band starts up the fight song. The cheerleaders and the dance team are down below us, dancing to music, and in the center of the crowd, people begin backing up as they prepare to light the tower of stacked wood.

  I don’t know if my eyes are just trained to spot her or if I’m going mad and seeing her everywhere, but I catch sight of Dallas in the first row of the crowd. Stella is beside her, so maybe I’m not going crazy, but before I decide for sure, flames tear through the wood, and she disappears behind the fire and smoke.

  As the team begins making their way off the stage, Coach claps me on the shoulder. “Get some rest tonight, McClain. You look tired.”

  I dip my chin once. “Yes, sir.”

  I think that’s it, so I turn to go, but he stops me one more time.

  “Dallas is here tonight with her friend Stella.” I stiffen, wondering if he’ll order me to keep my distance. “I still want you in bed by a decent time, but if you happen to run across her, I think she’d be glad to see you.” He pats me one more time on the shoulder, and then strolls past me, leaving me to follow behind.

  I’m not positive, but I think that might just count as permission.

  It takes me a while to get past the crowd. Everyone is trying to talk to the players or catch their attention, and I seem to be the only one moving against the flow. By the time I get to where I thought I saw Dallas, there’s not a tall redhead in sight. I stand there for several long minutes searching. The wind has shifted, sending the smoke from the blaze into my watery eyes—probably why they moved, too. In all the thousands of people here, I know I don’t stand a chance of finding her.

  Instead, I find Ryan still standing near the stage where I last saw him talking to Torres and Brookes and ask, “Hey, do you have Stella’s number?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “I do. Why?”

  “Can I have it?”

  He looks like he wants to argue about me answering a question with another question, but he doesn’t. He hands over his phone without a fight, and I steal the number before going off to search for a quiet place to call.

  Brookes calls out, “Go get ‘em tiger!” as I leave.

  Torres does a mock cheer, complete with a red and black pom-pom he must have charmed off a cheerleader. I smile, flipping them both off as I walk away.

  TWO HOURS LATER when I’m supposed to be resting (Coach’s orders), I’m making potentially the worst or best decision of my life. I check my watch again. Stella promised she’d have Dallas home by eleven, and she told me which window is hers.

  The lights are all off, and I just pray to God that Coach is a heavy sleeper. I don’t even want to think about what he’d do if he found me. I’d most likely be going home missing a body part or two.

  I duck under the peach tree outside her window, step over the shrubbery that lines the house, and knock quietly on the glass. I don’t hear anything, so after about thirty seconds, I knock again.

  “Oh my God, Stella. What did I tell you about using the—” She tears open the curtain and her jaw drops before she finishes. “—door.”

  “What are you . . .”

  “Can I come in?” I whisper.

  Please, please don’t let Coach be a light sleeper.

  She shakes off her surprise and heaves up the glass partition of her window. I grip the brick exterior of the house and push one leg through. I nearly endanger my ability to have children a few times as I try to squeeze my too-long limbs through the opening. Dallas has to keep a hold on me to make sure I don’t fall and wake the entire neighborhood, but after a mortifying minute or two, I’m in and she closes the window behind me.

  She wears a pair of Rusk sweatpants in black slung low on her hips. They’re paired with a strappy white tank top, which I can’t see much of because she’s got her arms clamped over her chest. Doesn’t matter, though. With
her creamy skin and soft hair and striking eyes, there’s plenty else for me to look at.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t have a balcony for me to climb, but I figured this was the next best thing.”

  She covers her mouth with her hand and blinks at me a few times before glancing at her closed bedroom door.

  “You have got to be out of your mind.”

  I grin. “A little bit.” Or at least it’s felt that way this week.

  “If he catches you—”

  I step closer and lay my hands on the curves of her shoulders.

  “He’ll kill me and use my body as a Halloween decoration. I know.”

  “I’m serious, Carson. You’re lucky that he’s taken all this so well, and it hasn’t affected your spot on the team. I don’t know if you’ll get that lucky again.”

  I run a hand up from her shoulder to the hollow of her neck. Goose bumps break out over her skin, and she closes her eyes.

  “Lucky was hearing you scream at that frat party. Lucky was you falling quite literally into my lap. I’ve had a lot of luck the last few months, Daredevil. And I’m just here hoping that it hasn’t run out. Besides . . . I think your dad actually gave me permission.”

  “To sneak in my bedroom window, really?”

  “Not for that. But he told me I should find you at the bonfire. It’s not my fault that there were an ass-ton of people there.”

  “Ass-ton? Ass-ton? Really romantic . . .”

  I slide my hand up from her neck to tangle in her hair and tip her head back to look at her. “You can make fun of how I talk another time. Right now, I just need you to tell me if I’ve screwed this up too badly for you to forgive me.”

  She licks her lips, and I almost forget what answer I’m waiting for.

  “And what exactly did you do to screw this up?”

  “I let you walk away from me without a fight. I thought I was doing what was best for both of us.”

  “I wasn’t going to walk away, you know. I was going to make you sneak around with me until things with Dad settled down, but I had no intention of giving you up until you all but pushed me away.”