Varsity Tiebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  “Of course. Can’t miss my girl’s party,” Hayden says.

  I catch the crinkle on Tory’s brow as he turns to take a few more samples from the desert table.

  “Cool. Well, I’ll be in the kitchen, helping the moms.” He pops a candied pecan in his mouth from the few gathered in his palm and glares at his brother, saving a small bit of that look for me as he passes.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  I can’t even talk to June about this right now. I haven’t caught her up, and I’m not sure I even want to. I’m not proud of how I handled all this, but the thought that Tory thinks Hayden is here under any pretense other than to just show up and play the part is ripping at my guts. He’s assuming that we aren’t really broken up, or that somehow Hayden was mistaken. I look like a massive player just toying with two brothers, which, ugh, maybe I am.

  “Hayden, good to see you,” my mom says, walking by with a platter of sandwiches in one hand, tugging on Hayden’s sleeve sweetly with the other.

  This is awful. I want to crawl into a hole, any hole. I’ll take a keyhole, smoosh myself inside and just live in a fucking doorknob.

  June starts clapping—it’s her annoying method of getting attention—and we all turn to face her.

  “Thank you, guys, for coming together today to celebrate our favorite diva . . .” She fans a hand out toward me. I guess I’m the diva? “Abby, you’re a woman now.”

  “She’s been a woman for a while,” Lucas says under his breath. June swings an arm at his chest and he spills a bit of punch on his shirt. Good.

  “Now, we said no presents because let’s face it, Abby’s got enough shit,” June jokes. She’s right, my closet is packed and I don’t really do trinkets and things. Mostly, though, I don’t like the awkward attention that comes along with getting a gift. The giver watches you open it, holding their breath and waiting for this perfect reaction. I don’t think I could ever give someone the absolute perfect reaction and the pressure of it stresses me out. Even on Christmas, I ask for cash. Cash is easy to react to. “Hey, thanks for the cash!”

  “But I did a little thing,” June continues.

  Shit. A gift.

  “It’s nothing extraordinary, Abs, so don’t expect much. But I may have gotten a little help from your mom to borrow a few things from your room for this occasion.” June walks over a large manila envelope, holding it in her flat palms as if she is presenting me with the crown. I quirk my lip up in a half-hearted smile.

  “Should I be nervous?” I am nervous. She took shit from my room!

  “I don’t think so,” she answers. Yeah, that’s a vague answer.

  With a deep breath, I take the envelope in my hands, straightening the clasp to pull the flap free. I reach in and feel the coils of a spiral notebook, and for a brief moment, my heart stops at the thought that she’s somehow dug up my fourth grade diary.

  My center of gravity shifts a little with the dose of panic, but things right themselves when I slide the booklet from the envelope and see exactly what my friend has done. It’s a calendar—of June’s various pissed off faces.

  Damn it. I love it.

  My mouth hangs open in search of the right reaction, but June fills in the words for me.

  “Right? It’s your most favorite thing, isn’t it?” She flips the cover open for me and points to January. It’s a photo of her chewing, her eyes all screwed up and angry that I’m taking her pic. There’s a dab of pizza sauce on her chin.”

  “Aww, the memories,” I say teasingly, covering my heart and looking my best friend in the eyes.

  “It’s literally the one thing I knew you needed in your life—a humiliating collection, sorted by month, of pictures of me.” She’s wearing a wry smile, and without pause, I reach for my phone from my back pocket and snap what is probably a blurry shot of her face.

  “Already starting on the next calendar, I see,” June says in a flat tone.

  “I think we could sell these,” I say, flipping through the rest of the months while my birthday guests crowd around. Most of my guests, at least.

  Tory’s taken a seat on the sofa on the other side of the room, a clear invisible wall between him and his brother—between him and me and his brother. It feels thick and ruled by silence. I lift my eyes to his, finding him waiting, staring. I try to form a smile, but it’s faint and sad. It matches the one he gives back to me.

  June claps again and as she wrangles everyone’s attention, I walk my new favorite calendar ever over to Tory, handing it to him and being careful to keep a friend-type of distance between us even though every cell in my body is battling to make contact with him.

  “Did you know about this?” I ask, remembering how he looked around my room at my photos of June, and the one of him and me.

  “Nope. She did this all on her own,” he says, looking up with a half-smile. We stay locked in a stare for a full breath, both looking away when the noise of the room makes us realize we aren’t alone.

  “Tory, I need you to be a part of this,” June hollers.

  “She’s like a teacher,” he says, twisting up his lips and pulling in his brow.

  “That’s what I’ve always said!” I step back to make room for him as he leaves the sofa and rounds the small coffee table. I’m careful to keep extra distance between us, walking slower than him, and curving to the other side of the room. I feel confident that I have everyone fooled—everyone but Hayden, whose glare at his brother is marked by a notable heavy brow and dimmed eyes that look like a predator ready to strike.

  “So, before we eat,” June says, these first few words receiving a collective groan from a room full of hungry bellies. “I know, it smells good. It’s almost ready! Just waiting on the wings.”

  June went all out, making all my favorites. Other than the soup my mom made, everything else in this spread falls in one of two categories—bakery item or bar food.

  “Everyone take a paper. Mom is passing them out.”

  My chest constricts because games are not really my thing, but June seemed excited so I told her it was fine as long as it’s not something hard or a pain in the ass to organize. When I take the paper from her mom and read through the first few questions, I wish I let her set up kickball instead.

  “Now, no cheating. We have a timer, so you cannot start writing until I say go.” June’s directions are background noise while I scan the list of personal questions about me. My birthday, which everyone should get right. My favorite thing at Holiday Theme Park—easily the glitter cotton candy. My favorite color, favorite time of the day, favorite thing to wear, first crush . . .

  I swallow and fold my own paper, moving over to the dessert spread to pick at a few more treats while I wait for June to finish this game. I’ll be shocked if anyone gets more than two. I’m not sure even June knows all the answers. My mom doesn’t, and that thought makes me sad. Over the last few years, we’ve been so consumed with my career and fighting for our independence from my dad that the personal things have sort of fallen to the side.

  “And . . . go!”

  Instant silence follows June’s directions, and I turn while I nibble on a chocolate pretzel to see everyone feverishly writing answers. June has her paper flattened against a wall so she can write quickly, which . . . why didn’t she just cheat and do it beforehand? She picked the damn questions.

  Hayden and Lucas seem to be teaming up, making each other laugh over their answers. Lola and Naomi seem to be working really hard, and my mom and June’s mom are concentrating and giving thought to each answer. Even if they get them wrong, I bet there will be some element of rightness. Tory is hovering in the back of the crowd, his paper folded in his hand. He slips it under some mail in the nook space by the refrigerator where the Mabees keep their keys and phone chargers, then opens the fridge to pull a cold water bottle out from the bottom drawer. He glances my way as he turns, but his attention doesn’t stick. He’s either good at pretending or detaching himself on purpose, trying not to get hurt.<
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  What June said would be three minutes of time feels as if it stretches on for ten, but finally, she tells everyone to put their pencils down and she collects the papers. She begins reading the responses, and a lot of them are funny. This part of the game . . . it’s okay.

  “Abby’s favorite time of day is any time that Abby is right,” June reads.

  “That’s kind of true. Give that a half point,” I say.

  “Score,” Lucas shouts, pulling in a fist pump.

  My mom ends up getting the most right, even more than my best friend, which soothes me some, but I’m curious about the one paper that wasn’t turned in. I wonder if he tried at all.

  “Okay, food is finally ready,” June’s mother announces.

  Everyone files toward the table to collect plates and bowls so they can filter down the line and stuff themselves in my honor. Tory is near the front of the line, and I smile to myself at the sight of him filling a large bowl of menudo. He’ll love it. It’s impossible not to. Waiting my turn, I back up a few steps into the kitchen while nobody notices and walk my fingers over to the paper Tory tried to dismiss.

  I pull it into my hand and open the fridge, bending down to act as if I’m getting a drink or searching for something down low. It’s silly that I feel like I have to hide just to read his answers, but I do. And as I read on, I’m even more certain.

  He’s gotten every answer right. My favorite color is pink, but not just pink—pale pink. My favorite glitter cotton candy is jotted down. Sunsets are my favorite time of day, and my first crush was Peter Pan. I liked the idea of someone sweeping me away for an adventure. Hearing my name mentioned, I quickly fold the paper up small enough to tuck it in my hand and pull a water bottle out for myself, shutting the fridge and moving back into the room full of people.

  “Do you want to tell everyone the right answers?” June asks. I discreetly stuff Tory’s paper into my purse and set my water down on the floor by the chair I’ve chosen to be my throne for the day.

  “No, I think I like the mystery. Besides, maybe some of you have answers I like better.” My response gets a laugh, and Lucas pipes in to take credit for changing my mind on some things.

  I fill my bowl with my mother’s soup, knowing this is probably the only other thing I will eat today and I will eat servings until it is gone. I take my seat again and nudge my purse under my chair with my foot, glancing up to see Tory staring at it. His eyes flit to mine and we lock gazes for a quiet moment when everyone else is too busy to notice.

  “Thank you,” I mouth.

  His lips curve up slightly at the corners and he blinks slowly with a careful nod. I don’t know how he knows me so well, but perhaps he’s been paying attention. I’m starting to wish I had been all along.

  19

  Tory

  This is hard. Loving a girl is hard. I’m in love with a girl, with Abby Cortez.

  And it is fucking hard.

  My brother and I drove in separate cars this morning. We left the house a minute apart, to give each other space. It’s all starting to feel so trivial. And wasteful. Gas is expensive.

  Something has to get figured out between me and Hayden before our game tonight. I’ve never actually seen Coach this upset at us. At other guys? Sure. But Hayd and I are exceptions. I guess getting away with four years of shit is finally catching up to us. Either that, or maybe this time our problems are too much for a team to take.

  We play St. Agnes today. It’s a big game, the first in our division. If we can run up the score against them, we have a good chance of taking the holiday tournament and maybe coming out the top seed in our division for state. We won’t beat St. Agnes if Hayden and I aren’t in sync, and it’s less about the team and more about how much it’s affecting me emotionally. I hate hating my brother. I can’t do it anymore.

  Part of making amends is going to mean letting go of Abby. I just don’t see a way that she and I can be something without it ruining everything else. I promised myself I would fight to keep her, but maybe the honorable thing and the best way to love her is to let her go. Maybe in another life . . . another time and place. This round, we are just off. The world isn’t ready for us.

  It’s hard to commit to being honorable when I read her texts, though. She wants to know how I knew everything about her on that birthday list, and I have to shake my head because I don’t really have an answer. I just do. I know so much about her, more than I realized. All from watching her, from paying attention to her little details, the things that make her tick. She wears more pale pink than any other color, and when she wears it on her lips, her smile is always brighter and her laugh a little more real. I knew the Peter Pan thing because she mentioned it once in fifth grade, that she thought Peter Pan was cute. Some of the boys in our class laughed at her; she punched one of them. She got sick eating the damn glitter cotton candy during our eighth grade trip to Holiday Park, but she said it was worth it when she threw up. I’ve been watching Abby Cortez for years; I just didn’t realize that the lens I was looking through was one of love.

  I leave my last hour early. I told June to tell Coach I am going to get things right with Hayden. She was glad to hear me say it, and since we’re both his assistants for last hour, she said she’d handle it.

  Hayden has study hall this period, and unfortunately the teacher in there is a former drill sergeant. I don’t say that to make commentary on the woman’s demeanor, I’m being real—she was in the Army for fifteen years. How our school was lucky enough to land her, I’ll never know. I had study hall last year, and she and I . . . let’s just say we don’t gel.

  I see my brother’s backpack dangling from the back of a chair, so I know he’s within earshot if I can manage to get his attention through the small crack in the door. She’ll be closing it soon.

  “Hayden,” I whisper, giving my voice enough volume to carry but not gain unwanted attention. It does zero good.

  I look both ways and move in closer, smooshing my face through the door to whisper it again.

  “Psst, Hayden!” I move away fast and flatten my back to the wall. My heart is thumping. I swear, this woman terrifies me.

  I crane my neck to peek through the open part and catch my brother’s eyes as he leans back. He grimaces and waves his hand, shooing me away.

  Goddamnit.

  “Come here,” I whisper a little louder, again darting away. I think that’s all I’ve got in me. If I try one more time, she’ll grab my tongue mid-speech and lord knows what that woman will do to it. Probably nothing, but something about her glare instills that kind of fear in me.

  I wait with my back against the wall for almost a full minute, and I’m about to give up when the door opens and my brother steps out. He walks past me, toward the restrooms.

  “Come on,” he says over his shoulder.

  I follow. We get inside and move to the window along the back wall where people put out their cigarette butts and snuff out the ends of their blunts.

  “What’s up? Something wrong at home? You need money? What?” He can barely make eye contact with me while he talks, and he keeps pacing, clearly not wanting to be here.

  “This is gonna take a lot longer than a bathroom break. I hope you know that,” I say. He huffs and moves to the sink, running his hands through the water, then through his hair.

  “Better not. Hurry up,” he grumbles.

  The urge to rush him and tackle his ass against the wall and sink and nasty floor is definitely simmering in my legs. It wouldn’t take much.

  Drawing in a calming breath through my nose, I say the only thing I believe will work, that will get him to actually stop and listen.

  “I love you.”

  He shakes his head like a cartoon mouse getting smacked with a broom. His mouth hangs open, unprepared to deliver a reaction. Those are not the words he was expecting, and that’s why they needed to be said.

  “Thanks, I guess,” he finally says, stretching his lips out over his teeth and awkwardly mashing th
em together. He’s uncomfortable, which is weird because we’re brothers—it shouldn’t be hard to say those words to each other. But after Abby’s party I struggled to remember the last time he and I had. I couldn’t think of it, which means it’s been too long.

  I step into him, and he flinches a little when I raise my hands. Placing my palms on either shoulder, I look him in the eyes and let the uncomfortable quiet strangle us as we’re forced to look at ourselves, at our own faces on someone else. It takes several seconds for him to return to character, for a softness to shine through this hardened armor on his face, but it happens. Slowly, it happens.

  “I love you,” I repeat.

  He swallows at hearing it the second time. His eyes shift to the side then back to me.

  “I love you too, man.”

  We both breathe out hard, our chests in sync with every in and out movement our lungs make. Once I think he’s ready for more, I tell him the part that’s even harder for me to say.

  “I’m sorry.” My mouth waters delivering the words because while I truly am for many things, I’m not sorry one bit for others. That doesn’t matter, though. I realized last night that forgiveness doesn’t get put on a scale.

  It’s going to take my brother some time to work through hearing these words, and I don’t expect to hear them back, though it sure would be nice. He folds his arms over his chest, closing himself off as he steps back until he can lean against the wall.

  I maintain eye contact with him the entire time, even when he can’t hold it on his end, looking down often and rubbing his finger in the corner of his eye. Ready, he finally snaps his gaze up to mine and tilts his head to one side.

  “Abby?” I hate that he starts here. It’s not the place to begin.

  With tight lips, I shake my head and look down.

  “It’s nothing,” I lie. I don’t swallow the painful rock lodged in my throat for fear he’ll see it. It’s my one big tell. I lift my chin and lean my head to the side to match his.