by AnonYMous
“Are you nuts?” I asked.
“What?” she said, all wide-eyed and innocent.
“We’re in the church parking lot at high noon.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, puh-lease. Nobody is looking at us.” She turned around and glanced at the front door of the church. Her grandma was walking out with her grandfather. Monica sighed. “Off to Hometown Corral. Home of America’s cheapest salad bar.” She pecked me on the cheek and jumped out of the truck.
I texted Jon back that I’d call him after lunch.
We just finished eating, and I came up to my room to call him, but I thought I’d write all this down first.
I feel nervous about calling him, but I’m not sure why. Like, I wouldn’t feel this way about calling Tyler. Why should I feel this way about calling Jon?
Later . . .
I don’t know why I was nervous about calling Jon. That kid had me laughing the second he got me on the phone. He told me that his headline for the blog was going to be “Second-String QB Leaps Tall Buildings in Single Bound,” and we ended up talking for, like, forty-five minutes.
He made me promise to send him a country playlist online. Said he needed redneck tunes to inspire his writing about football. I just finished sending him a list on Spotify, mainly classics like George Strait and Garth Brooks—the old stuff.
Jon is hilarious.
Now I’ve gotta call the Oklahoma scout. Here goes nothing. . . .
Voice mail. She’s out of the office until Friday. I left my info.
Monday, September 3
English—First Period
Tyler’s back today. I was surprised to see him. For some reason, I thought he’d stay at home or something. Mrs. Harrison got him a chair to prop his foot up on when he came in on his crutches. He’s wearing a big white brace that wraps all the way around his left leg with Velcro straps and keeps his knee from bending. I can see it out of the corner of my eye because he sits right behind me. I caught his eye and said, “Hey, man,” when he passed my desk. He didn’t smile or anything—not that I can blame him. When Tyler gets pissed, you know it.
Tyler. Is. Pissed.
I am really afraid that he’s going to be pissed at me personally. Even though I know it’s not my fault. Hell, I even tried to stop him from running that play. It won’t matter though. When Tyler gets angry, he doesn’t think anything through. He was mad at me one time because I got a better grade on a chemistry test we studied for together last year. He was a total dick to me for a whole week even though he was the one who was texting Erin the whole time I was trying to quiz him about the periodic table. Somehow, when he flunked the test, it was all my fault.
Finally I just told him to screw off. I said, “Dude. It’s not my fault you didn’t study. It’s not my fault you didn’t pay attention when I tried to help you. It’s not my fault your grade in the class was already in the shitter so flunking one more test got you benched for three games.”
And then? Boom. Just like that everything was cool again. He didn’t apologize, but when I finally stood up to him, he backed off.
I hate feeling like that’s going to happen again.
Of course, Monica would say that it isn’t happening again. Not yet anyway. She’s always going on about how people worry all the time about what’s going to happen in the future so it ruins what is happening right this second. She’s always writing LITN in big letters on stuff—her notebooks, sticky notes in her locker, under her name when she signs somebody’s yearbook; online it’s her hash tag for almost everything: #LITN. Live in the now.
I guess I’m not so good with that. I like to be prepared for what’s coming next. It’s why I work so hard in practice and even write plays out sometimes. Nothing is worse than a moment on the field where you get taken by surprise—where you don’t see it coming. It’s called getting blindsided for a reason.
Crap . . .
Joy Lucht just came in late and was walking to her seat behind Tyler’s desk. She accidentally bumped the chair his foot is propped up on with her purse, and Tyler shrieked and cussed a blue streak. Dropped an f-bomb in the middle of class. Everybody froze.
Joy was tripping over herself to apologize, and Mrs. Harrison calmly walked down the row and told her to sit, that it would be okay. Tyler was red in the face. He threw his notebook on the ground and yelled that it would not be “f-ing” okay, only he said it. He actually said it again. In class. To a teacher.
The only person I would rather not piss off in the entire universe besides Tyler is Mrs. Harrison. She stood very still right next to Tyler’s desk, just behind my left shoulder, for what seemed like a very long time. She was giving him the kind of look that turned animals to stone in Narnia. “Have you lost your mind?”
Tyler crossed his arms and looked in the other direction.
“Excuse me. I am speaking to you.” Mrs. Harrison has this way of saying things when she demands to be heard that is . . . well, terrifying. She very rarely speaks in this manner, so when she does, it is generally very impressive. It’s not loud, exactly. In fact, it’s less a matter of volume and more a matter of tone.
Even Tyler was no match for it. He turned and looked at her.
“I asked you a question, sir. Have you lost your mind?”
“No.” Tyler’s voice was tight like a spring being stretched.
“No . . . what?” Mrs. Harrison was not backing down.
“No, ma’am.”
“I am happy to hear that, Tyler, because I need you to muster the strength of every spare neuron you have to rub together and make sure that this next thing I’m going to tell you registers very deeply in your central nervous system. I want to make sure that this next statement I make is something you understand at a cellular level. So, are you listening? Do I have your attention?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now hear this: One more outburst or use of language like that in my classroom and the world of pain I will rain down on you will be the stuff of legend. I am very sorry that you were hurt on Friday night, and I know it is very upsetting to face the prospect of losing your senior season of football to an injury. I understand that Joy here bumped your leg, and I know that must have hurt very badly. But understand that if you disrespect my classroom, or your fellow classmates, with the use of profanity in that manner ever again, I will call your mother and the principal so quickly that the pain you’re in now will feel like a day at Disneyland.”
She turned around and spread her arms out, indicating all of us.
“How many of you were at the ball game on Friday night?” she asked. Almost everyone in the room raised a hand. Mrs. Harrison nodded. “Good, good,” she said. “And how many of you would be willing to help Tyler get around?” Every hand in the class was raised.
“Tyler, this will not be easy, but at any moment, at any time, there is an entire room full of very able people—several of whom I know for a fact care for you quite deeply—who are at the ready to help. The decision to ask for that help, and to allow yourself to be loved through a difficult time, is yours, but from this moment on, you must understand that to do things the hard way is something you have volunteered for—not something that is necessary. Do you understand me?”
I heard Tyler let out a long, slow sigh behind me. “I don’t need help getting around. I need help keeping my scholarship offer.”
Mrs. Harrison nodded. “I understand your concern, Tyler. I have no answer for you there. I do not know what your prognosis will be, and only time will tell if you’ll keep that scholarship or not. You don’t have a single iota of control over that. However, there is something that you do have control over, and that is whether you conduct yourself through a difficult and trying time with the dignity and grace of a young man of character, or whether you will wallow in the misery of being a victim.” She picked up Tyler’s notebook and pen and placed them back on his desk. “It is my sincere hope that you will choose the former, and not the latter.”
Mrs. Harris
on walked past me back to the front of the room and glanced at the clock, then told us to write in our journals for another five minutes. Jon glanced over at me and raised his eyebrows like, Holy. Crap.
Mrs. Harrison is incredible.
(So are Jon’s eyes. I know I keep saying that. I just keep . . . noticing.)
Study Hall—Fifth Period
I am so pissed off right now, I can barely hold this pen. For some reason, I thought that speech Mrs. Harrison gave Tyler this morning would mellow him the hell out, but I should’ve known better.
Getting Tyler down the hall to the cafeteria for lunch took some time, so I helped him get situated at our usual table. Brandon Sears, Corey Tracker, and Mike Watters were all there, and Erin went through the cafeteria line and got him some food. She came back with Tyler’s tray right as Monica and Amy walked up with Jon.
Sears immediately grinned and gave Jon a high five. “There’s the Music Man with the Maker’s. Dang, boy. That party was off the hook.”
Tracker moved his backpack so Jon could sit, and I smiled and held out my fist for a bump across the table. Jon sort of glanced down at my hand and then grinned as he bumped back.
“Music Man?” As we all sat down, Tyler was squinting at Jon like he was trying to make out the shape of an alien life-form. Immediately I was wary.
“Yep,” Monica chirped. “Jon and I met at the auditions for the fall musical on Friday. Cast list goes up tomorrow. He’s got an amazing voice.”
Tyler groaned. “Jesus. Leave you alone for a weekend and you start hanging out with the fags.”
My stomach dropped when he said this, and everybody at the table froze. The word “fags” landed like a bomb in the middle of the table, and I felt my face go beet red and my mind go blank. I’d heard guys on the team call each other that all the time. I’ve said it a bunch—mainly so that nobody would suspect anything about me. But something about hearing Tyler say it about Jon—my heart is racing again right now just writing it down. And was he just saying it about Jon?
Or was he talking about me?
There was this glint in Tyler’s eyes that seemed to dare me to say something. Both of my fists clenched, and I had this flash where I envisioned flipping his tray full of food into his face, then bashing him across the head with it. Before I could move, Monica was on her feet, yelling.
I was so angry, I couldn’t really hear what she was saying. I caught certain phrases: Asshole . . . How would you know . . . Such a dick . . . Shut the hell up . . . I could hear the blood pounding in my ears, and it was like everything was in slow motion. I looked at Jon, and he was staring down at his food. Then his eyes floated up to meet mine. I held his gaze for what felt like a long time, until I heard Monica say:
“Besides. He’s going out with Amy.”
Her words were like a foghorn through the blur, and Jon frowned as he glanced over at Monica, then down at the table, but not back at me. I don’t know why, but I hated Monica so much in that moment, the way she’s always got everything figured out and everyone labeled and paired off and arranged so neatly into our places in her universe, where we constantly orbit her star.
Watters whistled low under his breath when Monica’s tirade finally screeched to a halt. Tracker looked like he was about to start laughing his ass off, and Sears just shook his head and said, “Well. I guess she told you, big man.” There was a moment of silence, and then Tracker finally burst out laughing. The tension dissipated as everybody around the table joined in.
Except for me.
And Tyler.
And Jon.
Tyler glared at Monica. Then his eyes narrowed in Jon’s direction. He opened his mouth to say something, but I jumped in before he could.
“Jon, this is Tyler. Tyler, this is Jon. He sits across the aisle from us in Harrison’s class.”
Jon held out a hand to shake Tyler’s. Tyler stared at it for a second, then reached over, and they shook. “I’ve seen him,” Tyler said slowly. “I just didn’t know he’d infiltrated our lunch table.”
“What, do you work for the CIA now?” Watters asked.
Sears shook his head. “Ease up on the white boy, tiger. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d have been stuck drinking that bong water beer at the party on Friday.”
Jon gave Tyler a tentative smile. “Good game Friday. Sorry about your knee.”
Tyler snorted. “What were you doing at the football game?” He wasn’t giving an inch.
“Jesus, Ty. It’s a free country. He can go to a football game at his own high school.” Erin rolled her eyes and smiled at Jon. “Sorry. He’s not usually like this.”
“Yes, he is.” Monica muttered this as she pulled open her yogurt. She was having none of it. “Jon was covering the season opener for The Battalion.”
“The what?” Tyler asked.
“The school newspaper.” Amy had been silent, sitting next to Jon, but she jumped in with a smile. She kept stealing glances at Jon, who was keeping his eyes on his lunch for the most part. I could feel the weight of the tension in the air between Jon and Tyler. Jon had been doing that thing where you don’t look a snarling dog in the eye, but he put down his sandwich and turned to face Tyler head-on.
“It’s mainly a blog now,” Jon explained to Tyler. “They only print three issues each year. Paper, labor, and shipping cost a lot more than posting it on the Web. Besides, who reads newspapers anymore?”
“So did you write up the big game?” Tyler sneered this, and I felt the muscles between my shoulder blades tighten. God, he is such a dick sometimes. For some reason, because his surliness was not directed at me, but instead at somebody new, I felt it more acutely. I stared laser beams through him across the table, but his sights were set on Jon. Was he always this big a douche bag, but I just never noticed? What is it about Jon that makes me so pissed off when Tyler talks to him this way?
Jon ignored the tone of Tyler’s voice and answered the question as if Tyler had asked sincerely. “Sure did. Great game. You two really nailed that handoff play.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t so great from the emergency room.”
Jon pursed his lips, then took a deep breath and tried again. “Yeah, that part sucked. Again, really sorry about that, dude.”
“You and me both.” Tyler cracked open the can of Coke that Erin had brought him and took a swallow, then belched loudly.
“Wow, Tyler. Classy.” Monica sighed, and Erin glanced around, embarrassed.
Tyler ignored them both. “And what qualifies you to write about football . . . dude?”
My stomach was in knots. I wanted to brain Tyler, but I felt paralyzed. I couldn’t even speak. I felt like an SUV was parked on my chest. I could barely get a breath. It was like I was watching a car wreck in slow motion.
Jon shrugged. “Just like football, I guess. My older brother played in high school. Went to all his games.”
“And where was that?”
“Chicago.” It came out sounding all choked and mangled, but at least I was finally able to say something.
Tyler turned and looked at me like he’d forgotten I was there. He raised his eyebrows. “Got a Yankee in our midst,” he crowed, then turned back to Jon. “You ever play football?”
Jon shook his head as he swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. “Nah—not much for team sports.”
“Just like to watch, huh?”
“He’s on the swim team,” I offered. It seemed very important to me to make Tyler aware that Jon was an athlete. Why do I feel like I have to defend Jon to Tyler? Why is it so important to me that Tyler like him?
The minute I said it, I knew it was a mistake. Tyler’s eyes narrowed again, and he snorted. “The swim team? Oh, great.” He was about to say more, but mercifully Tracker broke in.
“Oh yeah—I meant to tell you, my sister’s on the girls swim team.” He smiled at Jon around a mouthful of mystery meat. I hadn’t touched mine yet. “I forgot to tell you at the bonfire on Friday.”
Sears laughed. “Y
eah, ’cause your skinny ass was drunk off two tugs on that bottle of bourbon.”
Jon saw his escape and took it. He wadded up his brown paper lunch sack and slipped the strap of his messenger bag over his head so it crossed his chest.
“Where are you going?” Monica asked.
“Gotta post the story about the game after school. Need to get it approved by Miss Howerton next period and gotta make a few edits. Catch you guys later.”
I tried to catch his eye as he turned and walked out of the cafeteria, but he didn’t look at me.
That’s the worst part of this whole fiasco. I bet Jon’s mad at me for not standing up to Tyler. I’ll bet he thinks I’m a total tool now. Some dumb jock who runs around the locker room snapping towels and calling people “fag.”
Why do I care? Why do I feel so worked up about this? Am I mad at Tyler, or am I pissed off at myself? What do I have to be angry about? Maybe I’m not angry at all. Maybe I’ve just gotten a glimpse of what Tyler is really like from somebody else’s point of view.
Maybe I’m just scared. Scared that my best friend is an idiot. Scared that he knows about me. Scared that everything I’ve worked so hard to build for myself is about to come spilling out—over what? This freaking new kid?
I can’t let that happen.
Tuesday, September 4
6:30 a.m.
Woke up an hour ago and couldn’t get back to sleep. I was dreaming about Jon running down a football field that never seemed to end. He was being chased by Tyler, and I was watching from the stands. In the dream, I knew that if Tyler tackled Jon, something terrible would happen. I was trying to get down onto the field to run in between them, to tackle Tyler before he got to Jon, but there was a huge chain-link fence all the way around the field with razor wire at the top, and each time I tried to climb it, I cut myself.