by Hughey, J.
So chronicled my first real interaction with Hotness, somewhat stilted, yet also easy and perfect, until his then-current girlfriend arrived.
What if today is easy and perfect? He’d asked me to the game, hadn’t he?
His obvious interest, his taking the initiative, settled my innards.
At 1:01, his head popped in the door. Of course, I’d seen him in class on Wednesday and Friday and run into him once in the Study, so it wasn’t totally weird. But seeing him framed in Mia’s and my door made my armpits sweat again. OMG, had I put on deodorant? Had I shaved? Too late. “Hey, Boone.”
“Hi, Violet.” He glanced around my room. “That’s the new rig?” He pointed toward the bike in the super-cool wall rack Dad had helped me find online. (Mia’d been shocked I’d had a plan all along.) The rack leaned on the wall at the foot of my bed, and though it could hold two bikes, I only had mine on the uppermost slot, so it hung with the back wheel over the foot of my bed and the front over our mini-kitchen of fridge and crates. It worked great.
“Giant. Nice,” he said, appreciating the brand. “The wheels look big.”
“Seven hundred millimeters. Bigger wheels got popular with mountain bikers, though this is a crossover. Not quite as burly as a straight mountain bike, I mean.”
“Still ride a lot?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“How far?”
“It depends. Usually twenty miles round trip, something like that.”
“Is that safe? For a girl? Alone?” He stumbled through the words, recognizing thin, politically incorrect ice. “I mean, I was thinking about how you wrecked last winter, out by yourself.”
Good save. “I’ve always ridden alone.”
“What if something happens, like you get hit by a car or have a flat?”
I shrugged. “I run an app on my phone. Mia gets emails when I’m riding. She knows where I am. And the guy at the bike shop taught me how to change a tube. If someone hits me, I hope they’ll at least call 911 as they speed away.”
His nod did not completely camouflage his skepticism. “Maybe we could ride together again sometime.”
I looked from him to my bike. My riding clothes still weren’t exactly in any fashion magazine’s list of Ten Versatile Outfit Pieces for Fall, but I’d enjoyed biking with him before.
“Sure. I’d like that.”
“Good. Ready to go?” he asked.
“Yep.” I had already forced my lip-gloss and student ID into my front pocket and I slid my phone in a back one. Walking down the steps with him behind me felt awkward, and then, out on campus, I imagined everyone stared at us, though they didn’t. If they were looking at anyone, it was he, in a faded WCC T-shirt stretched tight on his shoulders but loose over the waist of khaki shorts. He wore his black Vans without socks, untied. He looked awesome. I doubted he had spent two hours getting ready like I had.
“A few friends are getting together at an apartment on Broad Street. Nothing weird.” We crossed Campus Ave. through thick traffic. Music blared from the stadium parking area where alums tailgated. The scent of burning charcoal and bratwurst hung in the air.
Beyond the manicured haven of campus, we walked two blocks of storefronts and run down houses converted to apartments. Boone opened the door to a duplex with dented white aluminum siding. Not sure where to go, I stepped to the left of the door. The interior smelled like sour beer and sweat, and when I looked around, I could see why. A generous collection of empty cans and dirty socks dotted the orangish carpet of the living room. An enormous guy with a shaved head yelled from the ugliest green couch I’d ever seen, “The Cornhuskers are kicking Wyoming’s ass.” A tattoo of two snakes contorted into the number fifty-two decorated the folds on the back of his neck. The cinderblock head rotated to look at me. “You must be Violet. Do people call you Violet?”
“Umm, sometimes Vie.” I don’t know why I admitted that to him. I didn’t like being called Vie ’cuz it sounded pissed-off and contentious. Of course, being named Violet in the twenty-first century represented a curse of epic proportions, in and of itself. I might as well be the wilting heroine in one of Mia’s Gram’s romance books.
“This is Cramer,” Boone said. “He played center until he cracked a vertebra in his neck last year.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” I said, wondering how hard you had to hit a neck like a tree trunk to actually injure it.
“House of misfits here,” Cramer said with a smile that didn’t effectively disguise how much his injury had taken away from him. “Want a beer?” He pointed to a cooler at his feet.
“Not yet. Thanks.”
He turned back to the game.
“Dude, you are the worst host ever.” Boone slapped his friend on his shiny head. “And lay off the brews. It’s barely past one.”
“Screw you. The game’s on, so go babysit some freshman.”
Boone led me to the kitchen. The soles of my flip flops clung to the mung coating the vinyl floor between us and the brown refrigerator. Boone pointed to some drinks on the shelf of the dark interior. “I brought some soda and water over before. You want anything?”
I grabbed a cola, and he did, too. We went to the back porch where more people hung out, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on a vinyl sofa under the sagging roof or lounging in mismatched lawn chairs on mossy dirt in the shaded narrow area that passed for a yard. A tall wooden fence with flaking paint prevented the crazy from spreading to the neighbors on either side.
Farther back, near the alley behind the lot, four guys played beer pong, their red party cups marking the corners of the table. Mr. Bodacious grunted in time with pull-ups he performed from a low tree branch. Fate being cruel, Twyla cheered him on.
Of course, she would have to be here. Luckily, she only had one of her clones in tow. The other girls here were normal, like me.
She took a sip from a cup as she turned. Her gaze flicked over Boone, from the top of his spiky hair to the tips of his Vans. The predatory smile that started to bloom on her perfect face froze when she saw me. Eyebrows tweezed into near-nonexistence, arched.
“Boonie!” she called.
Boonie? I glanced over to see what Boone made of the nickname, trying to hide my smirk behind the soda can. I didn’t know Boone well, but I sure knew he wasn’t a Boonie. He acknowledged her with a casual wave. His chin jutted forward, and somehow I knew he knew he wasn’t a Boonie, either.
“I’m so bummed you can’t play anymore. I loved to watch you play.” She gave this compliment in a tone suggesting she’d watched him do porn or something.
“Not cheering this year?”
She sniffed. “I hate the new coach.” Her ideal American bust strained the confines of her layered camisoles.
One of the guys on the couch spoke up. “The coach wanted her to be a base.”
Mr. Bodacious groaned. “Oh, don’t get her started again.”
Twyla flicked her golden hair over her shoulder in a motion reminiscent of my ex-BFF from home. A shudder vibrated my spine
“I’ve never been a base. I’m a flyer,” she insisted.
Bodacious grabbed her by the waist to lift her as high as his muscle bound arms would allow. “Fly down to the mini-mart and get me a burrito, girl. I’m starving.”
She squealed, “Rodney, put me down,” but I could tell she loved it, from her toothy smile all the way to her pointed toes.
Boone turned toward the door to introduce me to some new arrivals. A silent prayer of gratitude played through my head when Rodney and Twyla left to get cheap burritos.
We snagged two open spots on the couch when the beer pong teams rotated. The vinyl upholstery felt like a lint roller against my jeans, probably coated with the same sticky residue glazing the kitchen floor.
I tapped a finger on my soda can and tried not to stare at Boone’s sculpted legs. The layer of hair shined where the sun hit. “Weren’t you team manager last year or something?” My home football game attendance had improved 100% aft
er the bike ride. I’d seen him on the sidelines in a yellow polo shirt identical to the ones the coaches wore.
“Sort of. I helped the second string QB and recorded the offensive plays during games.”
“The team didn’t need you this year?”
He leaned forward to brace his forearms on his thighs, his soda cradled in his hands between his knees. “I felt stupid on the sidelines. I wouldn’t mind coaching kids or something, but here, with guys my own age, I either needed to be on the field playing or in the stands.”
I hesitated to touch him, to let my hand rise to his back in a gesture of comfort, but when I gave in to the impulse, wow, his warmth welcomed my palm. The corner of his mouth lifted.
“I shouldn’t have brought all this up, especially before the first game,” I said. “Again.”
His glance flicked over to me for a second. “It’s better this year.” He flexed the leg in front of him, and it looked damned near perfect to me. “Twenty-two months later, I feel close to normal.”
He sat back, dislodging my hand. I placed it on my thigh as he angled toward me. “I can’t believe it’s been a year since we ran into each other on that ride. Serendipity.”
“What do you mean?”
I thought we were about to have a moment when a guy who’d been snoring on a faded folding lounge near the fence sat up like he’d been plugged in to power. “Dudes, we oughta head,” he announced.
I longed to hear the answer to my question, but Boone rose, ready to pull me to my feet. I sucked down the last of the now-warm soda. Our empties clattered in an overflowing recycling bin in the kitchen.
“C’mon, Cramer,” Boone said to the back of the bald head.
“I’m not going,” Cramer sulked.
“Sure you are. Hey, Sid, help me get Number 52 down to the stadium,” he said as he circled to the front of the couch.
“I’m not Number 52 anymore, you douche. I’m a friggin’ reject with a busted neck.”
“Don’t make me drag your sorry ass,” the guy named Sid warned as he came around the other end of the couch.
I stood back to watch. Cramer might be a reject, but his mass probably exceeded a compact car’s. Luckily, Sid’s build suggested a sumo wrestler who could lift a compact car over his head. With Boone there to help, I didn’t think Number 52 stood a chance, though the battle could be Marvel movie epic.
“You guys suck,” Cramer grumbled. He unfolded to a minimum of six feet three and shoved a beer down his shorts. One for the road.
Sid walked with Cramer. Boone and I followed, like chaperones on an elementary school class trip.
“Sorry about this,” Boone said, gesturing toward his friends. “I should have asked you to do something after the game. I didn’t think he’d be this bad.”
“Nah, you’re like an Eagle Scout, with your pack to tend and your rules to follow,” I whispered conspiratorially.
“I’m not an Eagle Scout,” he protested.
“You may not have been diagnosed, but you have all the symptoms.” He smiled at me, so cute I had to concentrate on my feet to avoid tripping on the uneven sidewalk.
“You think I’m some kind of Dudley Do Right?” he asked, miffed.
I burst out laughing. “The fact you just said ‘Dudley Do Right’ proves you are.”
He stopped abruptly, and I walked two steps past him before I stopped, too. My stomach sank. I wondered if I’d gone too far with the banter.
“Do you like being called Vie?” he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.
I reached around to make sure the long back of my shirt hadn’t hitched up on my butt. “No. I’m guessing you don’t like being called an Eagle Scout?”
“Rule follower. Can’t deny it.” He searched my face, the challenge still there.
I put my hands on my hips. “Well, I guess as long as no one writes a new rule to make me invisible to you again, I can live with that.”
He frowned. “You were never invisible, Violet, just off-limits.”
There was more I wanted to say about that, but my tongue refused, frozen by the never-invisible admission.
He marched forward to grab my hand, spinning me back into our journey to the stadium. My fingers quickly found their spaces between his, noticing delightful callouses on their inevitable slide. He walked with purpose, with a destination in mind as happiness glowed from every pore of my body. I probably sparkled like Edward Cullen.
He led me into the crowd queued at the gate and cut a path for me all the way to the student section. It seemed like half the people we passed said hello to him. He held my hand until we squeezed into our seats among many of the people who’d been at the pre-party.
“I don’t know much about football,” I admitted. A cluster of referees and players from both teams held a meeting on top of our snake logo inlaid on the unnaturally green artificial turf. I’d been to enough games last year to make me familiar with the part where bottles of grain alcohol passed hand-to-hand around the spectator’s ankles so security couldn’t see them. I took two swigs then stopped. Boone did about the same. So, maybe, not a total Eagle Scout.
Watching a football game with former players and other Copperhead athletes shared no common ground with what I’d done last year, which was sit among freshman girls. Rabid might describe this group. They yelled encouragement at our guys, not so much to the refs or the visiting team. Cramer and the others missed nothing, howled at each minor setback, booed the penalties, and lost their minds when we scored. Boone, while less obnoxious, popped out of his seat almost every play. He gestured wildly when he explained the intricacies of a bad call to me. The energy in the stands made me almost giddy as the score tied in the fourth quarter.
“Our center is slower at snapping than my two-year-old nephew,” Cramer shouted when the Copperheads turned over on downs. (Don’t ask me to explain what that means.)
“At least he gets it in the QB’s hands,” Boone retorted.
“Yeah, and his head isn’t going to fall off if he takes a bad hit,” Sid added.
“You guys can suck my—” A roar from the crowd drowned out the rest, but Cramer finally wore a smile on his face.
The sun balanced above the trees as the clock depleted to 0:00. Thank goodness we’d won because I did not want to see Cramer or Sid on a losing day. They listed all the failures of our winning offensive line as we plodded down the stadium steps.
I didn’t know if Boone would say goodbye at the gate or what, but he took my hand again when we reached street level. “Do you want to get some pizza?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, completely failing to find my “whatever” expression again. I smiled down at the sidewalk then blushed when he noticed and squeezed my hand.
“Let’s walk down to Eatsa Pizza. The place on Campus Avenue will be packed.”
We’d made it about half a block when Twyla called, “Boonie!”
He sighed and turned.
“Hey, what post-party are you going to?” She’d pulled her hair up in a meticulously sloppy bunch on the back of her head. Her pack of she-wolves had been restored, and their cheeks all sported football players’ numbers, but hers were conspicuously bare.
“I’m not. I have to check on the guys on my floor. First game weekend and all.”
“I guess.” She shoved her hand out at me. “Hi, I’m Twyla.”
“Violet.” I shook her hand then made a point of re-insinuating my fingers with Boone’s.
“Are you new to Western Case?” she asked.
“No. I met you last year, during rush.” A minute narrowing of her eyes confirmed she didn’t like my calling her on her bad. My nerves ratcheted up again. I despised conflict, especially with this kind of girl. Been there, done that.
She recovered to saccharin astonishment. “I’m so sorry. I don’t remember you at all.”
“Not surprising. The rush experience was entirely forgettable for me, too.”
Boone snorted. Gagga Kappa sister-clones gasped from th
eir backup singer half circle. “Sisterhood isn’t for everyone,” she said with a hint of Southern twang.
“Can I get an amen?” I joked as a wiggle of my hand sent a signal to Boone.
He eased down the sidewalk. “See you later.”
Twyla’s mouth opened as I turned to walk with him.
“Boonie?” I said when we’d gained some distance from her.
“We dated at the end of sophomore year, a few weeks into junior.” After a full minute of silence, he pushed open the door of the busy restaurant. A flood of oven heat and the odors of food and college students assaulted us after hours in the fresh air. “Is that a deal-breaker or something?”
“No. I just don’t know which question to ask first.”
We found a booth along the wall near the center, neither hiding in the back nor advertising ourselves at a table for two in the window. Boone ordered water, I asked for an iced tea, and we quickly agreed on a large pizza with mushrooms and olives.
He looked across the table at me while he unrolled his napkin and silverware. “You already know way more about me than I do about you. Before I tell the Twyla story, you’ve gotta tell me something.”
“Like what?” I flattened the paper wrapper from my straw.
“Like who’s the last guy you dated?”
“I guess I had that coming,” I sighed, stalling. “Define dated.”
He grinned. “Went out with exclusively.”
I brushed some crumbs off the table into a napkin. “Nobody you’d know. I mean, nobody here.” I sighed again when he kept staring at me. “High school boyfriend. I broke up with him spring of senior year.”
“Name?” He laughed at my peeved expression. “C’mon, you know Twyla’s name.”
“Don’t I ever.”
His eyes sparkled.
“Oh, all right, his name was Parker.”
“Parker, like Spiderman? You dated Spiderman?” he crowed. The three Head Cases at the next table turned to stare.
“Cut it out,” I said. He laughed again as my face got hot. “Parker was his first name.”