My friends chuckle as if there’s time for jokes.
“Just do it before we all get in trouble,” I command. Concerned that my new neighbor is still staying plastered to the ground, clenching and unclenching her fists and not saying a word.
I’m a little frightened that I’ve actually hurt her, and I feel like a jerk about it. I knew better than to play football with a girl. I don’t know how to play the game gently. I never have. I catch the ball and then I stiff arm or knock down anyone who’s in my way to get to the end zone. My dad has been saying for years that I could easily play a position on the offensive line because of my size and toughness, but there’s no glory in that.
I was born to run.
So a wide receiver I will be.
“Hey, Jersey girl, are you in pain?” I ask.
“Not dy rain.”
“Not dy rain? I can’t understand you.”
I’m never going to see the outside world again if this girl has a concussion.
It seems to take her a lot of effort to speak, but she gets it out clearer this time.
“Not. My. Name.”
“You mean when I call you Jersey girl?”
She flops her fist heavily against the grass.
“Yesss,” she hisses.
I smile to myself. Oh, she’s angry. It’s so uncommon for kids to get mad at me, I forgot what it looks like. It’s kind of … refreshing.
“Sorry, um—” I think hard for a moment. I know she told us her name. It’s just that sometimes I forget things. “Olivia.”
Pete finally comes running back with a bottle of spring water. Before he can give it to her, I grab it from him and offer it to her myself.
“Here, drink this,” I tell her.
She angrily nods her head back and forth no.
“You can’t just lie here forever,” I say.
“I’m gettin’ up.”
I offer her my hand to help her stand. I can tell that she’s trying mighty hard not to show that something is hurtin’ on her. I can respect that. This girl is no punk. And not that it means squat right now, but I can’ t help but notice that one of her eyes is slightly larger than the other. I’ve never seen that before. It’s kind of unique. Between her northern accent, her love for football, and her mismatched eyes—Jersey girl has got to be one of the most interesting girls I think I’ve ever seen in Bear Springs.
“What school are you going to?” I ask. All of a sudden, I want to know more about her. There’s only one public school for kids our age in Bear Springs, but her parents may be sending her to a private school.
“Bear Springs Middle School.”
“That’s where we all go too,” I say. Doing my best to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“You’re in middle school?” she asks in a voice full of disbelief.
I’m used to the question.
“I’m big for my age,” I tell her.
“You definitely are.” She brushes some dirt off of the back of her shorts and finally takes a swig of the water. “You’re faster and stronger than any boy I’ve ever met. I feel like a Diesel truck just ran me over.”
“I warned you,” I say shrugging my shoulders in a I told you so kind of way.
“Get over yourself,” she retorts. “I feel better already. You guys want to keep playing or what?”
Man, this girl is tough.
“Yeah, but I’m not going to.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Gonna ride you back home on my bike first.”
6
Mason
“Mason, you’re going to let her ride on your bike?” Kelly rudely asks as if I’m doing something wrong.
And she wonders why I don’t want to go to her birthday party. She’s been way too bossy and clingy ever since I kissed her on the lips during a game of truth or dare in the fifth grade. Girls are crazy. Especially ones like Kelly.
“I’m not going home,” Jersey girl says.
“Why not?”
“My mom’s going to make me unpack the entire house if I go home, and I don’t feel like it.”
“Not when I tell her that you probably have a concussion.”
“And how would you know that?”
“My dad works at the university too. He’s a trainer with the athletic department, and he sees this kind of stuff every day. He taught me what to look for. Now hop on the back and keep your feet out of the spokes.”
“I can walk, thank you very much.”
“I knocked you down hard. You shouldn’t walk home in this heat.”
“You better drop me off in the front and run then, because my mom’s going to kill you when she finds out you’re the one who damaged my head.”
“You shouldn’t have played with them!” Kelly says.
“And you promised you weren’t going to rat us out to your folks,” I add.
“You’re scared now, aren’t you?” she asks with a sinister smile on her face.
That’s when I notice something else about Jersey girl. She has two buck teeth in the front of her mouth that you can’t help but stare at when she grins. I wonder if her friends back home called her bucky.
“Nope. I’m never scared.”
“You should be.”
“I have to meet your mom sometime. We are next door neighbors after all.”
“You’d be surprised. There are people from my block back home that I swear I only saw two times a year. Halloween and Christmas. Neighbors don’t have to talk to each other at all if they don’t want to.”
“This is Bear Springs, not New Jersey. We talk to each other down here. In fact, I bet that my mom will have invited your mom for coffee by next week, probably sooner.”
“My mom doesn’t do small chat or coffee. She’s a single mother with a full-time job.”
“Trust me, my mom won’t take no for an answer.”
“That might be kind of nice if it happens. My mom doesn’t have any friends down here just like me.”
“Correction, you have one friend now.”
Jersey girl tries to hide what I think is a smile as she quietly climbs up on the seat behind me. I ride a souped-up mountain bike that my dad altered to accommodate my large size. She grabs the sides of my shirt to hold herself steady and tries her best not to lean into me. I want her to though, so I make sure to take the long way home over rough road.
“Where are we going?”
“Just showing you around the neighborhood for a minute.”
“It literally is only going to take you a minute to show me. This town is so small.”
“You’re not happy that you moved here, are you?” I ask as I huff uphill.
“How did you know,” she responds sarcastically.
I keep riding. Pointing out to her some of the little nooks and crannies of my town. Maybe once she gets to know the place, she’ll change her mind. Maybe once she sees all of the cool places here, she won’t be so sad. I think seriously for a moment about showing her my hideaway by the creek but then change my mind. There’s plenty of time for that. We’ve got all summer.
“This is Bear Creek,” I tell her.
“Oh, so there is actual water around here.”
“You like to swim?”
She doesn’t answer me right away.
I keep pedaling us on the path by the creek.
“Yes, I like the water.” She seems to reluctantly admit. “You know it’s kind of pretty out here.”
“Yeah.”
I swerve my bike around the bend a little too fast, and we almost wipe out because I’m not used to the extra weight of another person on my bike. We’re saved just in the nick of time she leans slightly to the opposite side, balancing our weight and saving us from falling in the middle of the road. She’s not like your average girl from around here, she’s clearly been on someone’s bike before—and now that I know that, I ride faster.
“Hold on tight,” I tell her.
She shrieks with joy as I pedal faster down the sl
ope of one of my favorite bike paths.
“We’re going down Snake’s Tongue.” I try speaking through the stifling summer air blowing in our faces. “This is the best path in the whole town.”
She squeals in delight once again as we hit a bump.
“Ride faster!” she demands.
“Are you going to tell your mom if we wipe out?” I ask almost out of breath as I pedal us up the hill.
“We’re not going to wipe out,” she says matter of factly. “I’m trusting you with my life, Diesel.”
“I thought you didn’t like nicknames?” I ask through heavy breaths.
“It’s okay as long as I can give you one too.”
“Then it’s settled. You’re Jersey girl and I’m Diesel.”
“Agreed.”
We reach the peak of the trail, and now it’s time for the best part. The drop. I stop pedaling, and we begin to coast down the hill, gaining momentum with each passing second.
It feels like we’re free-falling, and even though I’ve been on this trail a million times before, it is ten times more fun with Jersey girl on the back of my bike. She hollers with glee our entire way down.
“Wheeeeee!”
As we freewheel farther down the path, I think all of all the places I’m going to show her this summer: the creek, the hideaway, my treehouse, the bigger football field on the other side of town.
We’re going to have so much fun.
This is my kind of girl.
SECOND QUARTER
7
Olivia
Strings of stray pieces of maroon and white plastic fly into my mouth as I sit in my usual spot on the stadium bleachers. I’m front and center in the middle of a sea of people dressed in all maroon and white, armed with plastic pom-poms, and cheering for the Bear Springs High School Chargers. There’s something deliciously addictive about the deafening roar of a crowd of rowdy football fans on a Friday night.
I simply love it.
This is a huge game for the school. We are playing one of our conference rivals and one of the best teams in the league. Sometimes I desperately wish I was one of the ones out there on the field, running with the ball, scoring for the crowd—but then I watch one of the players get flattened on the field by two big burly oafs and remember why I sit in the stands.
To stay alive.
“Hi, Olivia.”
“Hey, Ginger.”
I give her a curious look as she takes a seat beside me. Ginger and I are far from friends, so I’m not sure why she’s sitting here and not with her usual clique.
“Our boy is looking great out there tonight isn’t he?”
I snicker to myself. Our boy? Is she serious right now? Ginger is probably what you would call the high school hottie. She is a beautiful, popular, and for the most part someone I can tolerate on most days, except for the fact that she occasionally talks to me in an attempt to get close to Mason.
“Catch it!” I blurt out as I suddenly stand with the crowd as it roars with celebratory cheers. The quarterback just threw Mason a Hail Mary pass down the field which he leaps up and catches in the corner of the end zone with barely his fingertips.
TOUCHDOWN!
In just the few short years that I’ve known my best friend, it’s amazing just how much he’s improved as an athlete. His body has always been big and strong for his age, but now it seems as if he can do the impossible with it, which I guess is why he is the most popular football player in our region. There’s no doubt that he’s going to go pro one day.
“Woo-hoo!” Ginger cheers. “He runs so fast doesn’t he?”
With the ball still in his hands, Mason looks for me in the stands, and I give him one of our secret signs. I quickly throw up three numbers in rapid succession with my right hand. First the number four, then a three, then another four.
Mason then spikes the ball, raises his arms high, and does a little crisscross maneuver with his legs that both his teammates and the crowd eat up. They love it and begin to cheer for him even louder.
“Yeah, number eighty-eight!” Ginger yells.
I laugh to myself, because I just gave Mason the hand code for a very old touchdown celebratory dance that the two of us made up a few years ago in his backyard. I honestly didn’t think he would remember it because I’ve made up at least seven different dances since then, but I should have known better. Mason never forgets. So now I owe him a burger and fries tomorrow. Since he’s greedy, maybe two burgers.
“Oh my God, he was definitely looking at me just now!” Ginger exclaims.
I roll my eyes to myself.
“I didn’t notice,” I say plainly.
“You didn’t see him looking in this direction?”
Yes—but not at you, idiot.
“All I saw was him dance in the end zone like a weenie,” I joke.
“A weenie? No, girl, I thought his little dance was super-hot. I’d love to show him just how hot I thought it was.”
I pretend to shove a finger down my throat to demonstrate how grossed out I am by Ginger’s words. She laughs for a moment, but then takes a lengthy judgmental look at me. My hair is in one big fuzzy ponytail on top of my head, my face is free of makeup, and I’m dressed in one of my many spirit wear outfits—baggy maroon sweatpants with the logo spelled on one side of the legs, and a matching oversized sweatshirt with our school logo front and center.
This is pretty much what I wear every day to school, and yes I know what she’s thinking, but I don’t care. I don’t dress to impress anyone at school. I simply dress for comfort.
“I totally understand why you wouldn’t see how hot Mason is. Boys aren’t your thing, huh?”
Does she think I like girls just because I actually pay attention to football games and wear baggy clothes?
“What?”
“This is a judgment-free zone, Livy. You can be honest.”
“Could you not call me that. I hate that nickname.”
I clap loudly in support of the effort made on the last play. Mason tried to catch the last pass, but it was thrown too high.
“Good effort, Diesel.”
“So listen, do you think you can put in a good word for me?” she asks. Finally getting to the point of this entire excruciating conversation. “With Mason I mean.”
“Why can’t you talk to him yourself?”
You seem to talk to so many other boys in school just fine.
“Obviously I could, but since you two are so close, I thought I’d ask you first. I mean you have the inside track. I was wondering if he ever talks about me? Maybe mention how pretty I am or something?”
I’m actually going to be sick this time. This conversation is literally poisoning me.
“Mason and I don’t talk about who he likes or dates, Ginger.”
“Aren’t you two best friends?”
“He has a lot of friends. Why don’t you ask one of the other ones?”
“Well, I guess I could talk to Pete or Simon about him.”
I try my best to tune Ginger out because the opposing team’s offense just took the field and our defense already looks tired. I yell out what I hope are some motivational side comments to them, because everyone knows that offense puts fans in the bleachers but defense wins games.
“Come on defense!” I yell across the field standing straight up. “Get your head in the game!”
I take a seat and start nervously tapping my foot on the ground as I wait for another play. Our rivalry with the opposing team runs deep, and I very much want them to lose.
“Oh, you know what I wanted to tell you, Olivia.”
Is this pom-pom for brains still talking to me?
“Student council is looking for an events coordinator. Paula Simmons can’t do it anymore, because she’s failing English. Would you want the position?”
Ginger’s question takes me off guard. I didn’t imagine how quickly I would start to fall in love with Bear Springs when I first moved here years ago. In fact, sometimes I feel badl
y about it. Like I’m cheating on all of my old friends back in New Jersey. But the truth of it is, is that there is a love for football down here that my old school just didn’t have. It’s a deeply ingrained part of the culture here.
Game highlights are the topic of everyday conversation from kids to adults; because of that, I have slowly morphed from the kid who was the New Jersey transplant into a bona fide Bear Springs resident with incredible school spirit. In other words a townie and a Georgia peach.
I wear our team colors all the time, I attend all spirit events, and becoming the events coordinator for the senior class would give me inner circle access to every school event—not to mention that it would be great for my college applications. It’s certainly a tempting offer, but it’s obvious that there are strings attached. Can I sell Mason out like that?
Hell yeah, I can.
“I’d be interested.”
“Great! I’ll put your name in as my personal recommendation for the slot. You don’t have to have to give a speech or anything, and we vote on Thursday.”
“So soon?”
“Yep. If you’re voted in then you start Monday morning. That’s the day we have meetings unless something big is coming up like homecoming. Then we have meetings twice a week.”
“Cool. Thanks, Ginger.”
“No problem. Soooo are you going to see Mason after the game?
There it is—the string.
“He likes to look at film and stuff after the game so probably not.”
“Oh well, whenever you get a chance to talk to him. Let me give you my number, so uh you can pass it along when you see him.”
I hesitate for a moment. Something about this feels yucky. Mason and I never get involved in each other’s love lives. Correction—if I had one, he wouldn’t get involved. Not to mention that Mason doesn’t do anything that he doesn’t want to do. I don’t even know if I can even fulfill my inferred part of this deal with the devil.
“Sure type it in here.”
I hand her my phone.
“Awesome!”
The next thing I know, the clock has run out, and the opposing team takes a knee.
Diesel: A Sports Romance Page 3