When Fall Breaks

by Julie Solano

  “I am, Pip. It’s just that it’s a special night, so you’re gonna help me.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “I get to choose someone to help me for Homecoming. It’s a tradition, don’t you know? Oh ya, you never get to come this early. Just come on, let me show you. It will be fun.” He gives his head a quick snap toward center field.

  I am not a crowd person, and definitely do not want to be the center of attention. I hesitate momentarily until I feel Chelsea’s eyes try to decapitate me with her laser sharp glare. “If she doesn’t want to go with you, I will,” her whiney voice permeates our little safety bubble.

  I look over to her and scowl, then look back at Brody, “Let’s go.”

  He bends down and scoops me over his left shoulder. “Careful of the axe,” he cries, resting me on his left shoulder pad with the axe tucked in closely with his right hand. The crowd erupts with cheering as we make our way toward center field. As we run, Brody huffs out, “Pip, sorry about earlier this week. I have to know you’re not mad at me so I can concentrate tonight. All I can think about right now is how I’ve messed up our friendship. It’s killing me that you won’t talk to me. I need your luck for my first league game. You need to plant the Miner axe for me.” He slides me down, grabbing me at the waist, and gently sets me on the ground.

  “Well being that you just managed to sweep me off my feet, you’re forgiven. And about that luck, uh, I’ll see what I can do.” A grin spreads across his face as he hands me the axe. The crowd grows silent.

  I hear a player shout, “He’s got Coach’s daughter!” It echoes through the stadium as the crowd erupts once again.

  I hold the axe over my head and pause momentarily looking Brody right in the eyes. The crowd starts chanting, “Woodley, Woodley, Woodley.”

  “Good luck Brody Tatum,” I whisper, slamming the axe down into the ground with as much force as I can manage. The crowd erupts in cheers.

  “Thank you,” Brody grins and turns to run back toward the team.

  “Wait,” I grab his arm, spinning him back toward me. I pull my lucky horseshoe necklace from beneath my blouse and unclasp it from my neck, “Touch this . . . it’s always brought me luck.”

  He slides his hand over mine, trapping the horseshoe in between our clasped fingers. “You still wear that?”

  “Of course I do. My best friend gave it to me. It reminds me that we’ve always got each other’s backs. Now go kick some booty Cutie!”

  He gives my hand a tight little squeeze, smiles, and runs back to the team.

  Luck is obviously on our side when the Miners win the coin toss and choose to receive the kickoff. It’s the first play of the game and Brody is not only starting at wide receiver, but he’s also playing special teams. He’s deep in the field to receive for the Miners when the ball is launched into the air. He watches the kick and swiftly positions himself directly under the ball. It’s a perfect catch. He stealthily maneuvers through the first two Lions and heads down the field. He’s at their 40 yard line when he spins through another defender, breaking his tackle. He’s almost down when he catches his balance and continues down the field. Brody is too quick for the opposing team. He makes it to the 40–30–20–10. . . and he’s in for a touchdown. He’s put the first six points of the game on the board. The crowd cheers wildly. Chelsea screams from the track, “That’s my boy!!!”

  Jenna looks at me and gags, “Dude, get over it! He didn’t even let you plant his axe tonight!” she screams down at the cheerleaders. Chelsea obviously didn’t hear over the newly erupted Miner Fight Song, but the people in the pit around us start patting Jenna on the back and shake their heads in agreement.

  My mouth is still hanging open from Jenna’s bold outburst. “I can’t believe you just yelled that. Give me five, Sista!” I raise my hand and slap her a high five. I turn around to see I’ve just missed Jenna’s current crush, Ty, boot the ball through the goal post for the conversion. These boys are on fire tonight. What an incredible start to the game.

  The Lions gain possession of the ball, but squander their downs away in no time flat. I’m so focused on trying to send the boys lucky energy that I don’t even notice that Douche-bag Daemon plants his skinny French butt right in the middle of Jenna and me. He’s dressed in an outdated tuxedo that hits him just above the ankles. “What’s up Daemon?” I grumble, shooting him my, “What makes you think you can separate my best friend and me with your scrawny butt?” glare.

  “Zhust getting ready for ze halftime show. When I came to pick up my escort I noticed zomething. All of ze girls down there wiz Mizz Chelzea have red, blotchy faces . . . All of her friends in ze stands have zem too. You and Jenna just had zis problem . . . Is it not a strange coincidenz?”

  “What are you insinuating?” I question.

  “Oh, nozing . . . just a little curious. I’m trying to help Mr. Pine wiz ze investigation.”

  I’m caught off guard that he has sniffed us out in his pursuit of the mysterious rash. I fumble for a response. “Well, Detective Daemon, perhaps they’re all suffering an allergic reaction to the same tray of kitty litter . . . or maybe they rolled around in a field of bad catnip . . . They have been acting pretty aroused for days. Now, move along, you’re in the middle of my Pit Party.”

  He stands up, and makes his way back through the crowd, writing something on a small notepad as he leaves. “What was that about?” Jenna asks guardedly. “Do you think he’s onto us?”

  “I don’t know, but that is the last guy we need to find out our secret. Promise me, that no matter what happens, we deny, deny, deny,” I whisper with wide eyes.

  “Oh, I am the Queen of Denial,” Jenna chuckles. “Speaking of queens, I’m looking forward to the halftime show. After the crowning of the queen, I hear those cheerleaders have a pretty special routine they’ve put together.

  “Seriously? How special could it be with the Cha Cha Crew?”

  “Well, I don’t know what they have planned, but while you were caught up talking to Dumb Ass Daemon, a few of the cheerleaders just came and sat down in front of us. I’m pretty sure I just caught them passing around a flask with the rest of the Aristocats. Can’t wait to see looped up Chelsea claw her way to the top of the pyramid tonight. This should be good.”

  We look up just in time to catch Caden running through the goal posts with a quarterback keeper. The crowd goes wild once again, and I swear I hear Chelsea’s backwoods friend Lexi point to my brother and shout in her hillbilly drawl, “You may not be able to do it, but I’m gonna ‘sack’ that quarterback tonight, Baby!” I catch a glance at Peyton, another member of the litter, sharpening her claws. Word is, she has a huge crush on my brother and wants to hook up with him at the dance tomorrow night.

  I turn to Jenna in disgust, “Are you flippin’ kidding me?” I pull my hand to the side of my face. “Oh no no no. This is not happening. Not if I can help it. It’s bad enough that Brody has gotten involved with the Cha Cha’s; now they’re all going after my brother too? Unacceptable.”

  Jenna appears to be just as mortified as I am, though she fumbles through arguments she can use to make me feel better. “Oh, Kait. I’m sure Caden has more sense than that. He’s not going to give Hoedown Lexi the time of day. Whatever she thinks she’s going to do with your brother is all in her head. She’s obviously been sipping from the same moonshine as Chelsea. The only sack she’s gonna be hitting tonight is the one she shares with her cousin-grandpa.”

  Jenna starts humming a backwoods twang and pretending she’s picking a banjo when she’s interrupted by the announcer, “Ladies and gentleman, I’d like you to focus your attention to center field, where the Homecoming Court will be arriving shortly. This year, we have nine couples, including our honorary princess and princesses who are on exchange from France and Sweden.”

  I am completely uninterested in the Homecoming Court. The faculty decided to try something new and choose the court for us this year. T
hat way people who don’t typically have a chance of being nominated, can have an equal opportunity to participate in Homecoming. Our senior class didn’t even have a vote on who was a part of it. Needless to say, every prince or princess is either a member of the nerd herd or the brown nosing elite. The only person I really associate with on the court is Dipwad Daemon, and I don’t need to stick around to see him lose. “Let’s go to the bathroom while they’re doing this so we can get a closer view when the cheerleaders come out.

  “Sounds good to me,” Jenna agrees.

  As we step down to leave for the bathroom, I make sure to step right next to Lexi and accidentally let my banger smack her right in the face, “Hey!” I hear her yelp.

  “Oops, I’m such a klutz,” I chuckle, and never turn back.

  When we leave the bathroom, rather than returning to the stands, we go down to the track to get a better view of the cheerleading halftime routine. The girls are stumbling around, giggling, and making weird faces at each other. Audrey and Courtney have their noses pulled up with their index fingers, oinking at each other like pigs, while two more sets of girls are stacked on top of each other having chicken fights. Their coach is working fiercely to try to get them lined up for their routine. Even from a distance, we can hear the click of her black stilettos as she runs around in her little black pants and tight tank top trying to wrangle her girls together. She is furiously chomping her gum, screeching, “We perform in 45 seconds girls! Get it together!” She double-claps her hands as she screams in vain, “Girls, you’re making me look bad! Come on!”

  Jenna and I are cracking up and can’t wait til the music starts. “This is gonna be good! I’ve got my phone on video,” Jenna bounces up and down excitedly. When the music begins, the girls start heading toward the field like the zombies from Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Some are headed left, some are headed right, while Coach Priscilla shrieks, “Left, Left! No . . . Left!” They are completely out of sync and giggle wildly as they ooze all over the field.

  The cheerleaders are finally set in formation when the music, Can’t be Tamed, by Miley Cyrus begins.

  “How fitting,” Jenna laughs when the music starts.

  “Meow,” I chuckle back.

  Jenna holds up the video camera on her phone, and lets it roll, capturing the first blunder of the routine. Just as the girls lower into a crouch and begin to spin their heads around in circles, Ami ceases, and begins to vomit, splat down Chelsea’s leg. Instantly, we can hear Chelsea growl, “Gross!” She stops dancing and begins pawing the ground, trying to clean the vomit off her shoe.

  “Wow . . . looks like she’s digging in the litter box,” Jenna snickers.

  Chelsea finally stops pawing and tries to catch up to the rest of the noodle-armed cheerleaders. I’ve never seen a bigger circus act in my life. They bounce around awkwardly as they try to figure out the next move. Peyton, actually bends over giggling in defeat, no longer even trying to follow along with the rest of the girls. Finally, as the chorus begins to blare through the speakers, the girls try to back their way into formation. Only their backs are visible to us, when Carley steps up on Taylor’s hip. As she climbs to her shoulder, one foot slips, catching in the waistband of Taylor’s skirt, proving once again, that cheerleaders do not wear underwear. I hear the crowd gasp, and a little boy standing in front of me points laughing, “Daddy, I saw her booty.”

  Chelsea trips over Taylor, who’s currently out of formation trying to adjust her bloomers; but she manages not to fall. Once they are in place for the basket toss, Chelsea jumps into the bases’ hands. They look like they’re feeling pretty chipper tonight because they give her an extra high toss. I recognize fear in her eyes as Chelsea soars to new heights. She begins flailing like a cat falling from a ten story building. Arms and legs everywhere, claws out, I watch the bases work extra hard to try to position themselves under her landing. As she re-enters the Earth’s atmosphere, her right arm pokes through the open elbow of one base, and her left leg pokes through the open elbow of another. Luckily, they catch her head, but overall, it’s a miss.

  BAM! She crashes to the ground. She’s lying in the background as the cheerleaders move around and finish their routine, oblivious to the fact that they have a girl down in the backfield. “Yay,” they shout, kicking their legs in the air, screaming, and clapping for themselves, high-fiving as they run off the field. They take off, leaving Chelsea on the 50 yard line, rolling around and holding her leg up in the air.

  “Dude, is she actually licking her wounds?” I turn and ask Jenna.

  “Well, she does need to clean the puke off her leg. Just glad I have it all on video,” she holds her phone up giggling. Jenna is so proud of her foresight.

  We look up to see Coach Priscilla, try to run out to Chelsea. We are cracking up watching her heels sink into the moist ground with every step. When she finally reaches the 50 yard line, she motions to the ambulance. I’m not sure, but I think I see her mouth the words “Oh Shit” in slow motion. I turn back around looking into the stands to see the faces of the crowd in utter disbelief. People are shaking their heads and leaning into each other whispering. I actually see one guy stick his thumb up to his mouth, pinky extended, and tip his head back as a sign that he thinks they’ve been drinking.

  As we watch the entertaining crowd, the ambulance leaves with Chelsea, and the boys come back to the gridiron. Some are shaking their heads, while others are holding their foreheads in embarrassment. It doesn’t last long. Dad calls them into a huddle, I hear a loud cheer, and they run back onto the field to play some ball. The mortifying halftime show clearly has no effect on the players. In the first play that the Lions have the ball, their quarterback’s pass is picked off by our defense. We run it in for a touchdown. The Miners dominate the second half, and the game is pretty much a shutout.

  We’re forty seconds away from the end of the fourth quarter. The Miners are up 42 to 6, when we see the assistant coaches, Mike and Jeff, begin an early celebration. They grab the Gatorade coolers and head for Caden and Brody who are relaxing on the sidelines after their nearly flawless game. When the buzzer goes off, the Gatorade finds its way all over the boys. Cheering ensues as Caden grabs the enormous Miner flag and runs it around the track in a victory lap. The band plays the fight song as we all make our way out of the stadium.

  “Well, that was certainly entertaining,” Jenna smirks, “I wonder if Chelsea Cat will still be going to the dance tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she will. She still has eight lives left.” I reply, knowing full well that cats always land on their feet.

  JENNA HOLDS MY ARMS OUT to my sides, giving me the once over before Pistol arrives at my front door to pick me up. “We did good,” she nods, proud of her handy work. “You can look in the mirror now.”

  Standing in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Jenna has definitely polished this rough stone to perfection. We’ve straightened and curled my long, blonde hair into loose waves and Jenna has lightly brushed the remaining poison oak rash with powder and light coral-hued blush, giving me a nearly flawless complexion. She has perfected my eye-makeup, accentuating my deep blue eyes, and has used her magic mascara to make my lashes look super long. My face and hair help boost my confidence a little, though I’m still on edge because I’m not used to wearing a dress that hits quite so high or hugs quite so tight, but a girl’s gotta do, what a girl’s gotta do. Those rash-faced man prowlers will not be calling me a nun tonight.

  As I spin away from the mirror to give Jenna a “Thank You” hug, the doorbell rings. “It’s probably him,” Jenna whispers in my ear. “Go kick some booty. Make him drool. When he sees you tonight, he’ll know that you’re the most beautiful girl in this county. He’s not even going to remember that goat roper, CJ,” she double clicks her tongue and gives me a wink. “I’ll meet you there in just a bit to check on you.”

  Jenna walks me down the hall. I look up to see Pistol standing in the doorway next to my parents. My heart stops when I
see him dressed in sexy-as-hell black wranglers and a crisp white button down dress shirt. It’s slightly open at the top, drawing attention to his muscular, clean shaven jaw line. Holy heart throb. My own personal Luke Bryan. . . I gulp; heat shoots to my face when he holds out his arms and says, “Wow,” pausing to look me up and down. “I need to get me a little hug, Babydoll. You look stunning tonight.”

  He pulls me in for a tight hug, and doesn’t let go. He smells amazing. I am so thankful he looked past the incident with the boys and found it in his heart to take me to the dance tonight. I’ve missed my handsome cowboy, and can’t wait to show him off at the dance.

  My trance is broken when I hear my dad clear his throat “Well then,” he coughs out, breaking our hug. “Twelve o’clock curfew Missy.” He gives me a stern look and then directs his attention to Pistol. “I trust you’ll take good care of her young man.” My dad says firmly, shaking Pistol’s hand in a gesture of good faith.

  “Yes sir,” Pistol smiles and nods at my dad. “Have a good evening Mr. and Mrs. Woodley . . . No worries, Kaitlyn is in good hands.” He loosens his hold, and goosebumps cover my arms when he bends down and whispers into the top of my head, “Let’s go Babydoll. I want to see what that sexy dress looks like under the moonlight.” He slides my hand into his and walks me out the door.

  We get to the bottom of the steps, just out of my parents’ line of sight, when I feel Pistol’s hands start to slink up and down my thigh, pull my dress up my leg, and grope at my behind. I feel overly exposed and uncomfortable standing out under the streetlight. “Ummm, did you grow a couple extra arms in the last thirty seconds?” I giggle jokingly, trying to brush his hands away and pull down my dress. “Pistol, my parents might be watching us . . . I think we should get to the dance now.”

  Pistol grimaces and whines, “Damn it girl, you’re so high strung all the time. Don’t worry about your parents. I told them you were gonna be in good hands and they seemed fine with it,” he winks, sliding his hands around my hips again.