Game On

by Michelle Smith

  But in a not-so-surprising turn of events, his clingy, leech of a best friend crashed our “date” and completely threw me off my game. And I was pushed to the side and ignored, which, whatever—I’m used to it. I just needed a new game plan.

  Then Eric Perry walked in. Matt caught me glancing at him, and it was all downhill from there. The rest, as they say, is history.

  As much I hate myself for it, for the briefest of seconds, I actually felt guilty. I felt guilty for looking at another human being. If Matt is good at anything, it’s laying on a guilt trip worthy of courtroom dramatics. And I can still hear his whisper in my ear while we were sitting in that booth, the smirk I heard in his voice as he said, “You’re positive that you’re the one who gave him a ride last night?”

  So I stormed out. Screamed at him in the middle of the parking lot. Further transformed into this person he’s turned me into, someone who yells at her boyfriend outside of a crappy barbecue joint, for Christ’s sake. We might as well have been in some freaking Lifetime movie.

  I was this close to walking home—three miles be damned—when Eric showed up in the parking lot. And somehow, for some reason, I knew I’d be okay. And the words finally spilled out, like poison purging from my gut, and it felt really, really good. I wanted to say them again, and again, and again.

  We’re done. I should have that tattooed somewhere.

  I feel Eric’s eyes on me as I head across my yard, arms crossed tightly as my boots sink into the grass. I thanked him for giving me a ride tonight, but I don’t think he realizes how it was so much more than a lift home. If I’d have walked away from that parking lot, I don’t know if I would’ve worked up the nerve to do what had to be done.

  My house is dark when I walk inside, like always. Quiet, like always.

  Lifeless. Like always.

  My dad became a truck driver two years ago. The longest stretch I’ve seen him in those two years is three weeks, if that. And while I can’t blame him for wanting to get the heck away from this town, it’d be nice if he remembered me on his way out.

  I hang my keys on the hook beside the door. Unzip my boots and leave them on the entry rug. Toss my purse onto the couch.

  We’re done.

  My heart stutters, my steps faltering to match. I shake my head. Take a deep breath. Keep going.

  Despite my socks, the cold hardwood chills my feet as I turn down the hall; crappy insulation and even crappier heat tends to do that. I head into the bathroom. Squeeze makeup remover onto a tissue. Pretend I don’t notice the shake in my hand. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, of bloodshot eyes that are red from crying way too much over someone who doesn’t deserve a single tear.

  We’re so, so done.

  They’re my words—I actually said them out loud instead of daydreaming them—but they sound foreign as they play over and over and over in my head.

  Routine, Bri. Stick to the routine. Routine is safe. Routine will keep me from collapsing.

  I’m not allowed to collapse. Collapsing leads to tears, and I’m so tired of tears it’s not even funny.

  Makeup: off. Yoga pants and hoodie: on. In my room, I fall back onto my bed, my head sinking into the cool pillow. It’s not even seven o’clock, but exhaustion hits like a ton of bricks.

  Here’s the thing no one knows about me: I was four the first time my mom called me stupid. Some people get all huffy and insist there’s no way I can remember something from that long ago, that I was only a kid and I’ve probably just made it up over time, but stuff like that sticks with a girl more strongly than Krazy Glue.

  My first memory is my mother calling me stupid. And that wasn’t the last time.

  She left when I was seven, in the middle of the night. That’s actually why Dad and I eventually moved into this house; it was cheaper and Mom left him with a metric ton of debt. Dad said she was someone who never wanted to be a mom in the first place, which didn’t exactly make me feel better. Seriously, what kid wants to hear that? But the more I think about it, the more time passes, the more I realize Dad was right. And now I know that life has been better without her.

  Matt and I had been dating for two months when he told me he loved me. The next week, he called me stupid for the first time. It wasn’t the playful “You’re so stupid” kind of thing—it was the “stupid” that sinks to your core, the one that makes you second-guess everything you think you know. If one person says something, it hits you hard. If someone else chimes in with the same thing, even if it’s years later, you start to wonder if it’s true.

  Tonight wasn’t the first time he called me stupid. But it’ll most definitely be the last.

  An engine cranks outside. I glance out my window right as Mrs. Perry’s van pulls onto the road. They leave at the same time every Sunday night, on their way to church. And now, I really am alone on our tiny stretch of back road.

  Eric invited me over, but being around people increases the chance of them seeing you break. I hate being alone. I hate people seeing me break even more.

  My phone buzzes from the nightstand. I glance over, at the picture of Matt filling the screen. He’s shirtless, grinning that grin that gets him out of everything under the sun. I took that picture on his parents’ boat, when we went to the lake for Labor Day weekend. Right before he told me that my hips looked huge in my bikini. He said it with that grin. I wore a cover-up for the rest of the weekend.

  This is the same guy who’s sat beside me during National Honor Society meetings for the past two years. He brought me tulips on the first day of senior year. Told me that he’d been working up the guts to ask me out for months, ever since we worked on Habitat for Humanity together last spring.

  I grinned like an idiot. I should’ve run like hell.

  He had Honor Society and baseball; I had Honor Society and soccer. He had his friends; I had mine. We partnered in Biology and dissected cow eyeballs together. We danced at Homecoming and spent vacations at his parents’ lake house. For a while, things between us were absolutely, positively, mind-blowingly perfect.

  Until they weren’t.

  That’s when the dream guy turned into someone who ignores you when you do better on a test than he does. Who gets annoyed when you’re voted president of National Honor Society, and he gets vice president. Who gets royally pissed when you’re told that you’re at the top of the class, and he’s second.

  He’s the one who grabs your wrist when you try to walk away from a fight during Christmas vacation. Who wouldn’t dare grab you hard enough to leave a bruise, because dear God, he’s not a monster, but who also won’t let you get the last word. Who convinces you that you deserved it.

  And now tears are streaming down my cheeks. Dang it.

  In the silence of our old, drafty house, my sniffling sounds more like a race horse. The phone buzzes again. And again. And again. Out of habit, I reach for the stupid phone. Texts and a voicemail already cover my lock screen. But instead of answering, I press the button until it switches off. And for the briefest of brief seconds, my heart relaxes the slightest bit.

  I toss my phone onto the floor. Grab the remote from my nightstand. Turn on the TV and thank heaven for the Supernatural reruns on basic cable. And I try to forget that stupid boys and their stupid grins exist.

  Because just like life has been much better without my mom, life will be so much better without Matt Harris. Eventually.

  ~

  Monday morning brings clouds instead of sunshine, which makes it infinitely harder to get out of bed. I’m the weird person who adores Mondays. They test you, show you what you’re made of. And after a weekend from hell, I’m up for anything Monday has to offer.

  Bring it.

  After my morning run, I get ready for school and shove my soccer practice sweats into my gear bag. With the new season starting up, at least I’ll have one more distraction. I snatch my phone from the floor and stuff it into my backpack. Without turning it on. Which should be celebrated with a freaking parade.


  If I turn it on, I’ll snap. I’ll break. I’m teetering on a fine, fine line of some semblance of sanity, and if I feel the buzz of another voicemail waiting for me—which there no doubt will be—I’ll fall right over the edge.

  Smile’s on. And out the door I go.

  The old porch steps creak beneath my boots as I jog down. The Perrys’ door slams just as I reach my car. They file out one-by-one, almost like a family of ducks. Pastor Perry slides into his car, Grace and Emma hop into their mom’s van, and Eric slings his own gear bag into the bed of his truck. Before he climbs in, he catches me watching. Even though they’re slightly shielded beneath that ratty baseball cap of his, his dark eyes are shining. And then, he grins.

  Stupid boys and their stupid grins.

  “Mornin’, sunshine,” he calls.

  Opening my car door, I roll my eyes, but there’s no holding back my smile. If there’s one thing he’s always been good at, it’s making me smile like an idiot. “That’s beyond cheesy,” I call back. “Like, master-level cheese.” And kind of sweet. But no way am I telling him that.

  He points at me, that grin of his only widening. “But you’re smiling. My work here is done.” He climbs into his truck, and it roars to life. All I can do is shake my head. Which seems to be a running theme when I’m around him lately.

  While his engine roars to life, mine sputters. Which can’t be a good sign, but considering my dad is always gone just so we can afford actual food, the Check Engine light is a permanent fixture on my dashboard.

  By the time I pull into the senior lot at school, it’s almost packed full. And the closer I get to my spot, the more my stomach sinks. And then it straight-up plummets.

  Matt’s here already, his truck parked beside my usual spot.

  It’s not that I’m scared of him. He wouldn’t actually do anything to me—at least, I don’t think he would. Not here. Not in front of everyone, in front of the people he’s managed to fool into thinking he’s perfection personified. But that doesn’t mean he won’t do something.

  He’s a master of words, of twisting and turning them until my brain twists and turns to fall in line with them. It’s the downside of falling head over heels for someone—your brain falls for whatever they have to say, even if it’s a load of shit.

  I park and take a deep breath, and then another. Slide out of the car, grab my things, and start for the school, keeping my eyes trained ahead.

  “Bri,” he says on an exhale, like he’s relieved to see me, and just like that, I melt.

  I hate myself for it. But I do keep walking. Which slightly makes up for the hatred.

  He grabs my shoulder just as I touch the door handle. Without turning, I say, “What.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He’s always sorry.

  I peer through the narrow glass on the door, into the hallway. School is my safe place. It’s my haven. And he’s keeping me from it.

  “Is all this because of the Perry thing?” he says. “You know that was your fault in the first place, right? If you hadn’t—”

  I shrug out of his hold and yank the door open. My boots click on the polished floor as I stride toward homeroom, leaving him as far away as possible. My cheeks heat and my tears pool and my throat tightens, but I slip into the room just before the final bell, closing the door behind me. One more door between me and Matt. It’s not enough. But it’s a start.

  Keeping my head low, I make my way across the room, where Becca’s sitting in the back corner. I slide into the desk in front of hers. Release the breath that I think I’ve been holding since Matt grabbed my shoulder. Remind myself that I actually have to breathe to survive.

  “Hey,” Becca whispers.

  I turn. Becca Daniels and I have been friends ever since we tried out for JV soccer together during freshman year. She’s the best goalie in the state, hands-down. At any given moment, she looks like she just stepped off a runway—all perfect hair and makeup, usually with killer heels to match. She could also kick your ass into oblivion on the soccer field.

  “You never texted me last night,” she says, eyeing me carefully. “Did you do it?”

  The tears still line my eyes, because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many doors I put between us, that boy will always, always find a way to make me cry. All I can do is nod.

  Relief floods her face as she straightens in her seat. “Good,” she says. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  Chapter Five

  Eric

  Why can’t we ever take our own advice? Yesterday, I was telling Grace to screw the people who can’t stop whispering, or gossiping, or gawking (and not the good gawking). But it’s hard. Especially when you just want to scream “Eff you” to all of them, but manners and all that. My momma didn’t raise a total asshole.

  With my hood tugged over my head, I walk into the cafeteria at lunch on Monday, staring at the polished floor as I hurry to my table at the back. But no matter how much I try to block it out, I hear all of it.

  The whispering.

  And no, I’m not some conspiracy theorist. All through first period English, they stared. Second period? Staring contests. Hell, even Señora Hernandez joined in during third period. They stared and they whispered and they smirked and I kind of want to shove my fist through a wall.

  But: low profile.

  I slide onto the table’s bench, across from Kellen and Blake. Kellen and I have been in most of the same classes all our lives, while Blake’s a year below us. They’re two of maybe five people I can still trust around this school, now that my brother and all his buddies are gone. Last year, half the team sat at this table. This year, it’s the three of us.

  Kellen’s dad is the pastor of the Pentecostal church downtown and he’s the team’s first baseman, so he’s one of the few people who actually understands the crap that comes from both sides. You have to be perfect for the fans. Perfect for the church congregation. Perfect for everydamn-body, which blows when you’re far from perfection. The difference is that Kellen is actually, you know, a decent pastor’s kid. People aren’t writing articles about how much he sucks as a player and a person.

  I push back my hood and lean onto the table. He and Blake stare at me like I’m downright certifiable, which I might be heading toward, but whatever.

  “No food?” Kellen asks. “You won’t be worth crap at practice.”

  I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “Couldn’t go through the lunch line.”

  He narrows his dark eyes. “Why?”

  “Because they won’t stop staring at me.”

  He and Blake share a can-you-believe-this look before Blake tosses me his barbecue chips. Blake’s this year’s catcher, and a party junkie who’s probably screwed more girls in this school than I have. But he was adopted by his aunt and uncle when he was a baby and his parents decided they didn’t want to be parents anymore, so the people here give him the “poor, abandoned soul” pass.

  I want a pass.

  “You sound like one of those guys who stands on the street corner yelling about the apocalypse,” Blake says.

  “This is world-ending,” I tell him, opening the bag. “What if Coach sees that everyone hates me because of one stupid article and benches me before the season even starts?” My eyes widen. “Shit. What if he kicks me off the team? Would he do that? I don’t think he would do that. He wouldn’t do that, right?”

  Kellen rubs his face. “I’m actually starting to feel sorry for you.”

  I shove a chip into my mouth. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me, man.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not good pity, bro. Trust me.”

  A girl shouts “Move!” across the cafeteria, a yell that shoots straight through me. I’d know that voice anywhere—I heard it last night. I glance over my shoulder just as Bri storms out of the room, with Matt following right behind her. Some dudes just don’t understand what it means to back off. A girl tells you to l
eave her alone, leave her the hell alone.

  And now that the entertainment’s left, all eyes in the room not-so-subtly shift to our table. I’m gonna have to transfer, damn it. I turn back around.

  “That’s mainly why they’re staring at you,” Kellen says. “A few people are talking about the paper, but Matt’s going around telling everyone that you swiped Bri from him last night.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the reason she dumped him,” Blake adds, snatching a chip from the bag. “According to that loudmouth. Half the girls in AP Bio this morning were talking crap about her, and the guys—well, you know.”

  Damn it. Yeah, I do know. I’ve spent plenty of time in locker rooms.

  Blake stares at me for a moment before tossing me his foil-wrapped chicken sandwich. “Eat more. I’m not gonna peel you off the field later. I’ll grab something from the machine.”

  Gladly. “Thanks, man.” I tear off the wrapper and scarf nearly half the sandwich in one bite. “I don’t get it,” I tell them. “The Matt/Bri thing is one thing—even though you can’t swipe a girl, for Christ’s sake. She’s not a pet or anything. But how do they all know about the article? There’s no way these people read the newspaper.”

  They share another look. I swear, they’re as bad as my parents. “What?” I ask, polishing off my food.

  Kellen winces. “Don’t tell him,” he says. “He can’t handle it. He’s fragile.”

  “Someone should tell him,” Blake argues. “He’s not some precious snowflake.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Blake pulls his phone out of his pocket. Swipes the screen a few times, and turns it so I can see: the article is a local trending topic on his newsfeed.

  So I wasn’t just paranoid. Everyone and their momma is talking about me.

  The food in my stomach sinks like a brick. Definitely shouldn’t have eaten.