by AnonYMous
I knew in my head she was right, but the ache in the pit of my stomach got a little worse every time I remembered Tyler’s dad snorting and shaking his head and saying, He’s done with football in high school.
My stomach was still in knots when Erin and I parked by the curb at Monica’s place, and it didn’t get any better when Flash handed me a red plastic cup full of beer. Corey Tracker and Brandon Sears were trying to keep the college girls who had brought the keg from leaving—flirting their asses off. The girls were bummed because they’d been lured to the party with the promise of Tyler, but every time Tracker filled their cups, they giggled a little louder as the foam splashed out and ran over their fingers and seemed to be warming to the idea of doing without Tyler for the night.
Monica spotted me and came running over dragging Jonathan and her friend Amy from the cheerleading squad. “There you are. Jeez. What took you so long?”
“He was waiting for his curling iron to warm up.” Tracker was laughing so hard at his own joke, it was easy to reach over and flip his beer all over his shirt. He yelled in mock protest, then poured what was left in the cup over his own head and melted into the college girls who insisted they “get him out of these wet clothes” while pulling his T-shirt off.
“Stopped by the hospital,” I explained. “Brought Erin.”
“Oooooh, heeeeey, Erin.” Amy was the cheerleader most likely to be drunk first. “How’s Tyyyyyyyyler?”
Erin put her arm around Amy to keep her upright. “He’s alive, but he’s going to have to have surgery to fix his knee.”
Jonathan let out a low whistle. “So he’s out for good.”
“Says who?” Sears was really tall and really slow. It worked on the field, but in conversation it could be a chore. “Anybody know this guy?”
Monica threw an arm around Jonathan’s shoulders. “This is Jon, everybody. He just transferred here from a school in Chicago, and he’s going to be the lead in The Music Man.”
Jon opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. This was not the introduction he had hoped for. Even Tracker and the college girls were suddenly silent, staring. This truck was headed over the cliff.
“That’s awesome.”
Sears, Flash, and Tracker all turned to look at me, and I realized I was the one who had blurted out those words. I blushed like a mofo, but it was dark except for the bonfire, which had just sparked to a full blaze a couple hundred feet away. Lots of shadows. I plowed ahead. “I forgot the auditions were today. Did you find out the cast already?”
“No,” said Monica with her imperial smile. “I just know talent when I see it.”
“I’m on the swim team, too . . . ?” Jon offered this fact sheepishly—as a question: Will this help balance that I’m the drama geek?
“So that’s why your hair is wet in English every day.”
“Yup.” He smiled at me, relieved—a silent thank-you in his single syllable.
Tracker was too drunk to care about anything except handing out beer, it seemed, the way of freshmen at their first big party after their first big win their first year on varsity.
“Hey, Music Man,” he brayed, thrusting a foaming red cup at Jon. “I’m the beer man. Drink up.”
Jon sidestepped the slosh with a lighting-quick reflex and laughed. “No, thanks, Beer Man. If I’m gonna drink, I prefer the good stuff.” He smiled and passed the red cup to Amy, who’d been reaching for it anyway. She giggled a thank-you in Jon’s general direction as he pulled a bottle of Maker’s Mark out of the messenger bag he had slung over his shoulder.
“Aw’ight, fancy-pants!” Sears howled. “Now you’re singing a tune I know, Mr. Music Man.”
Half a bottle of Maker’s later, the knots in my stomach had dispersed like the crowd. After Jon won over Sears, Tracker, Flash, and the college girls with the power of Kentucky straight bourbon, they headed for the hot tub. Too many roasted marshmallows at the bonfire made Amy start to barf (typical), and Monica and Erin helped her up the long expanse of lawn toward the switchback stairs that led up several terraces from the river to the pool.
“Back in a second,” Monica chirped at us. “You boys get acquainted while I get little Pukey-Pukes-a-Lot here up to my bedroom.” Erin giggled and tried to hold Amy’s hair to one side as the three of them did a weird six-legged race toward the house.
“Does she always drink this much?” Jon stared after them.
“Amy?” I smiled. “Of course. Her dad’s a preacher.”
Jon nodded with a knowing smile. “There does seem to be a direct correlation between the drunkenness of a cheerleader and her proximity to the laity.”
I stared at him. “Huh?”
Jon laughed, and something about it sounded like the notes of a song I remembered from a long time ago. Maybe it was the Maker’s or maybe he really is the music man. Whatever the reason, my heart was racing and I laughed with him.
“Sorry,” he said. “When I get tipsy, I use my English vocabulary words.”
We were sitting on a log by the remains of the big fire. The last couple kissing on the other side finally stood up and stumbled deeper into the woods to make poor choices in private, and I felt Jon bump my knee with his. Something about the touch of his leg against mine sent a spark straight through me like the loud crackle-pop from the fire in front of us, which sent a shower of embers into the Arkansas night over our heads.
When I turned, Jon was smiling and holding the bottle my way. I grabbed it and took a swig. The thick, sweet liquid burned all the way down, and the warmth in my throat matched the heat of the place on my leg where Jon’s knee had bumped mine.
I passed the bottle back, and my hand brushed Jon’s as he took it and swung it up to his lips. Why did I notice every tiny contact I had with him? It was like my skin was on fire, and he was covered in pins and needles. I took a deep breath, and even though it was a humid August night, a chill swept over me. I felt the hair on my arms stand up with goose bumps.
“So . . . happy birthday.”
“What . . . ? Oh, yeah!” I said with a laugh.
“Did you forget?” he asked. “Wasn’t this whole festival of sin in your honor?”
“I guess—kinda, yeah.”
“So, you’re officially a man. How’s it feel?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Kinda . . . tipsy.”
Jon smiled and handed me the bottle. “Finish it off, birthday boy.”
“You got it, Music Man.”
He groaned. “Goddammit. That’s gonna stick, isn’t it?”
I gulped down the last of the bourbon and tossed the bottle in a high, long arc into the river. It landed with a klerplop in the middle. “Shoulda led with the swim team thing.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I do like music.”
Jon stood up next to me and stretched. His shoulders were broad from all that swimming, and the bottom of his T-shirt hiked up above the belt loops on his skinny jeans. Even in the dim light from the dying fire I could see chiseled abs disappearing into the waistband of his underwear. I thought about Tyler earlier in the locker room and felt my face go hot. I tried to look away, but Jon glanced down just as I did. Caught twice in twenty-four hours? I was getting sloppy.
Jon smiled and cocked an eyebrow. I knew he was about to make some crack, but my mind was blank.
To my surprise, he said nothing, which made my cheeks burn even hotter and forced me to try to say something—anything—to explain myself.
“I—uh—I was . . . looking . . . at your T-shirt!” It came out too fast and too loud and too much like I was . . . well . . . an idiot. I’m blushing again just writing it down.
Jon was staring at me, searching my face for a hidden answer I wasn’t sure was there. He slowly pulled the hem of his T-shirt out and down a few inches from where it hung and glanced at it.
“This ol’ thing?” He said it in a slow, lilting Southern drawl like he was in a movie. If he thought it was weird I was staring at his stomach, he didn’t let
on.
“What are pixies?” I asked, pointing to the words on his shirt.
He glanced down at the writing, then smirked at me. “A pixie is a fairy or a sprite,” he said. “Especially a mischievous one.”
Something about the way he said it made it sound like he was quoting from the dictionary, and I snorted through my nose, which made him laugh, too. He sat back down on the log next to me.
I was wiping tears out of my eyes from laughing so hard. “So . . . wait . . .” I gasped. “Why do you have a T-shirt promoting mischievous fairies?”
“Dude. It’s a band.”
“Really?” I asked. “Never heard of ’em.”
“I’m not surprised. They don’t get a lot of play on Redneck-Country-104.”
I shot him a look. “Redneck country, huh?”
He met my gaze and held it. “You’re one of those ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ types, aren’t you?”
Something about the way he said “Achy Breaky Heart” made my irritation about being called a redneck melt away. Or maybe it was his smirk. I started laughing again. “Achy Breaky Heart? Like . . . Miley Cyrus’s dad? C’mon, man. He sang that song before I was born.”
“Yeah, but admit it.” He was totally going for it now. “You’re a big ol’ country lover at heart.”
“Well . . . yeah.” I smiled. “Maybe I’ve never heard The Pixies, but do you know any George Strait?”
Jon stared at me. “Strait?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with ‘Strait’?”
He smiled in this way that made me unsure what we were talking about. He raised his eyebrows and gave me this big innocent grin. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
We were silent for a couple seconds. I was so buzzed that all I could do was stare at the glowing embers.
Jon broke the silence. “I wanna hear some.”
“Some what?”
“Some George Strait.”
I looked at him. I could see his face in the glow of the embers from the bonfire, and his eyes glinted, full and serious. No smirk.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Send me a playlist. Or burn me a CD. Or whatever. I’ll make you one of The Pixies.”
“Okay.” I smiled at him. “Where’d you move from again?”
“Chicago.”
I groaned. “Yankee.”
He laughed. “Yep.”
“What made ya’ll come South?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Dad got a job.”
Jon didn’t seem to want to talk about it. We sat there for a while on the log by the fire, listening to the music from the party up at the house and the sounds of the river. I felt warm, and alive, and ready to bust—like there was this energy surging through me. It crossed my mind that maybe we should go back up to the house and find Monica and Amy. How long had we been down here, just the two of us? But the truth was, I liked hanging out with Jon. I didn’t want the girls around. My legs were itching like I needed to run. I imagined Jon and me jumping up and whooping and racing down to the edge of the river, then running along it for miles until we were in the middle of nowhere.
“I don’t really think you’re a redneck,” he said.
I laughed. “I may be a big redneck. I drive a truck. I listen to country. I have no idea what your T-shirts mean, Yankee.”
“They’re all bands.”
“All of ’em?” I asked. “The Who? The Smiths . . . ?”
He looked surprised. “Somebody’s been paying attention.”
My stomach dropped like I was on the kamikaze waterslide at Wild River Country. “I just . . . I mean . . . You were . . .” I was stuttering all over the place. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed my knee.
“It’s cool.” His hand on my knee made me jump like he’d dropped an ice cube down my shirt. My heart was racing again. His fingers left my jeans, but I could still feel the heat of where he had touched me, the weight of his palm burning through the denim. “Didn’t think you’d end up trading shots with the drama geek tonight, did you?” His smirk was back.
I laughed. How did he do that? One second he had me jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs and the next second, he cracked me up.
“What were you doing at the game tonight, anyway?” I asked. “The theater kids don’t usually show up.”
“Journalism assignment. I’m supposed to post about the game on the school blog Monday.”
“Journalism?”
“Yeah, they asked for a volunteer to write up the home opener.”
“And you volunteered?”
He shrugged. “New school. Trying to make friends. Monica wanted me to see her and Amy cheer. Plus . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Plus what?” I asked.
“Wanted to see you in action.” He looked away when he said it, almost like he was owning up to something.
“What did you think?”
“Well, I thought that the basket toss Amy and Monica pulled off at halftime was just really top-notch cheer work. Both of them had great extension, and . . .”
Jon saw the look on my face and started giggling like I was a little kid. That’s when I realized he was joking and cracked up too. I hadn’t been this drunk in a while. “Not them, you moron.” I punched him lightly in the shoulder. “What did you think of me?”
He looked at me like he was sizing me up. “I think I came to the right game.”
I tried to hold his gaze, but my face was on fire again, and I looked back up at the house. “So, you and Amy . . . ?” The question hung in the air between us.
He gave a silent laugh—a puff of air somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “Your girlfriend seems heavily invested in the idea that Amy and I should go out.”
Your girlfriend. Something about those words made me jump to my feet. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. What was I doing? I am the star of the football team. How long have I been drunk, sitting by a burnt-out bonfire with the new kid? Was Monica looking for me? What would she think if she couldn’t find me? Were the guys wondering where I was?
“C’mon. We should go find the girls.”
Jon looked up at me sort of startled. “Oh . . . okay. Yeah, sure.” He didn’t get up. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah—I’m fine—just . . . We should get back to the party.”
Jon glanced up toward the house, but he didn’t move. “You go ahead, man,” he said. “I think I’m just gonna sit here for a second. I’m a little dizzy from all that Maker’s.”
For some reason, it felt very important that Jon come with me. I didn’t want to walk away from him, but I couldn’t stay down here with him anymore either. I held out my hand. He looked at it, then smiled and grabbed it in an arm-wrestling-style grip. I helped pull him up. He must not have been lying about being sort of dizzy because the momentum of getting to his feet carried him right into me, and I stumbled backward a step as our bodies collided on either side of our clasped hands, our forearms pinned between our chests.
“Whoa!” he said, and grabbed my shoulder with his free hand. I wrapped my arm around him to steady us before we both went tumbling into the hot coals behind us.
We were so close, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I could smell his cologne or his deodorant or something—it was sweet and peppery, and his eyes were level with mine. I hadn’t realized how tall he was, and his blue eyes had the same effect on me they had that first time I’d seen them in class.
I froze.
We stared at each other for a second.
“You good?” I asked.
The smirk slowly spread across his face. He nodded. “Yeah.” He reached down and grabbed the messenger bag that had held the bourbon, tossing the strap nonchalantly over his shoulder and then turning toward the house. “C’mon. Let’s go find those cheerleaders.”
Later . . .
My hand was about to fall off after writing all that, so I had to take a break. I just read it over, and I’m still not sure how I feel,
but maybe it’s good to have it down on paper anyway.
Monica called. We’re going to grab some food and see a movie tonight. She wanted me to call Jon and see if he wanted to call Amy and invite her, too, and then we could double date. What is it with girls and double dates? I told her I wanted it to be just us tonight. She seemed really pleased to hear that, but I don’t think it was because of the same reasons I meant it. There’s just something about Jon that makes me feel . . . weird. I get distracted and confused—like I’m not sure what’s going on. It’s not bad. I had fun last night, but I just . . . I don’t know what it is. I guess I feel worried, somehow.
What am I worried about? About being friends with the new kid?
Erin just texted me. Tyler is home from the hospital. I feel like I should call him, but what do I say? That situation makes me feel weird in a whole different way. On top of it all, my stomach still feels queasy from the Maker’s last night. I need a couple of cheeseburgers, like, yesterday.
Gonna jump in the shower and go pick up Monica. Have to eat if I’m gonna make it through this movie alive.
Sunday, September 2
Just got home from church. Mom has only two rules about church:
1. I have to go.
2. I have to leave my phone in the truck.
I can drive myself. I can sit wherever I want during the service. I can go out for lunch after with Monica and my friends. Whatever. I just have to go, and I can’t surf the Web on my phone. It’s boring as hell, but I deal.
Anyway, after the service today, Monica walked me out to my truck, and I turned on my phone while we were hanging out, talking.
There was a text message from a 773 area code that I didn’t recognize:
Hey man. Jon here. Thanks for hanging last night. Call me today? Need quote from you about the game for my blog post.
I smiled when I saw it, and Monica asked me who it was from. I told her it was Jon and wondered how he’d gotten my number. She said he’d asked her for it after the game on Friday.
“He’s such a great guy,” she said. “I’m glad you two hit it off.”
She leaned over the console and wrapped a hand around my neck. I felt her dark red nails graze my ear as she pulled me over and kissed me on the lips. She tried to slide her tongue into my mouth, and I pulled back.