by Anne Dayton
The players line up behind the ball, and at the drum major’s lead, we stand up and launch into a quick little number we call “Go, Team, Go.” It probably has a real name, but we call it that because during this one part, the cheerleaders scream “Go, team! Go!” to our beat. This is why I love the games—because it feels like we’re a part of the action somehow. Some of the trumpet players start dancing, and the cheerleaders on the track clap their pom-poms together. Riley catches my eye and winks as she screams with the rest of the squad.
Tonight’s game is especially exciting because, for once, it looks like we might actually win. We’re playing our rivals, Seaside High. A bunch of the kids from church go there, including Dave, who plays in their marching band. But mostly, it’s exciting because being here means I’m not stuck at home moping. It’s a nice change.
We finish the final notes of the song just as the quarterback snaps the ball, and we settle back into the bleachers. I scan the rest of the student section, where everyone is goofing around and decked out in our official Fighting Starfish colors. There are some kids I recognize from my classes, and all of Riley’s popular friends are down by the front. Even Christine and Ana are here, huddled together in the student section, trying to fight off the sharp October cold. I crane my neck, searching for one more person. I guess I didn’t really think he would be here, but I check out the top rows of the bleachers for his dark hair anyway.
“Looking for me?” I yank my head around. Marcus is grinning at me from two rows up.
“Totally.” I try to smile. I haven’t told Marcus about Dreamy and Ed. I will tell him, I guess. I just need . . .
Marcus gives me a thumbs-up, and I look away.
***
After the marching band performs the half-time show, we have a few minutes to hit the bathroom and get food before the next quarter starts. The girls are waiting for me when I get off the field.
“Nice job, Red.” Christine claps me on the back as we walk out of the bleachers area and onto the uneven cement by the bathrooms. “I especially loved the part where the girl dropped her flag.”
I smother a laugh. Our color guard is a bit clumsy this year, and it was a pretty spectacular flop. The giant garnet flag practically landed in Seaside’s stands.
“And you make that uniform look as good as it possibly can.” Christine eyes my hat with the little white feather coming out of the top.
Ana elbows Christine and glares at her.
“What? You said to be supportive. I’m pointing out my favorite parts.” Christine smirks at me, and I smile. She pretends to have this hard exterior, but she’s trying to help in her own way. And it’s kind of sweet they talked about supporting me tonight.
“Oh, and you guys are doing great too,” Christine says to Riley. “Don’t want to leave the cheerleaders out. Way to . . . cheer. You guys are really . . . cheerful.”
Riley rolls her eyes and gets in the snack bar line.
“How’re you doing, Zo?” Riley slings her arm around my shoulder, and I rest my head against hers.
“Okay.” I sigh and dig in my polyester pocket for some cash. “Neither of them are here, so that feels a little weird.” Dreamy and Ed used to come watch every game. They’d sit up at the top of the bleachers with the other band parents. “And I talked to Ed for hours last night. I couldn’t convince him to move back in.”
“Well, we’re going to be here for you, no matter what happens,” Ana says, coming up on my other side.
“And MarFar. Don’t forget MarFar. He’ll be there for you too.” Christine makes a kissing noise with her mouth, and I swat at her.
“Hey, Ana, is that…?,” Riley asks and we all turn. Tyler is standing with two people in blue-and-white Seaside band uniforms. Oh, it’s Dave, but he’s got his arm thrown around . . . is that . . . Jamie?
I squint across the crowded space. It looks like Jamie. She goes to youth group with us, and she sometimes sings with Three Car Garage, the band Tyler and Dave started. But why does he have his arm around . . .
Dave throws his head back to laugh, and his arm slips off Jamie’s shoulder, but it’s too late. Ana is frozen in place, her eyes wide. Just then, Dave looks up and sees Ana. He motions for her to come over, grinning from ear to ear, but Ana doesn’t move. Her cheeks are turning red.
“Who wants some popcorn?” Riley says, but her voice sounds high and strained. “Ana, didn’t you want some popcorn?”
Ana doesn’t answer.
***
After the game, Marcus and I head to the band room to change out of our dorky uniforms, then start back toward the cars. The air in the parking lot is jubilant. It’s a clear, beautiful night, it’s the beginning of the weekend, and Marina Vista has just won its first game against Seaside in ten years. All around us people are whooping and screaming as they make their way to their cars. I clutch my piccolo case close as I walk through the crowds to the dark lot toward the cars. All of us—boyfriends and, uh, Tyler, included—are supposed to meet up near our cars, then head to Christine’s house to hang out.
“That was so cool how they intercepted that ball right at the end,” Marcus says, skipping a little to keep up with me. He looks nice in a light blue polo shirt and Windbreaker. “And the half-time show went really well, don’t you think? Mr. Parker did a really good job choreographing this year.” I nod and try to follow along with what he’s saying, but I’m distracted, thinking about Dave and Jamie and what that means to Dave and Ana.
I hear Christine’s car before I see it. The light from a streetlamp illuminates two dark shapes sitting on the hood. Christine and Tyler. I can see Riley coming across the parking lot from the other direction, talking to some cheerleaders, but Ana doesn’t seem to be by her car. I squint. We’re almost at the cars before I see where Ana is. She’s standing by Dave’s car, just on the other side of hers, with her arms crossed over her chest.
I quicken my step. Something’s wrong. Marcus must sense it too because he stops chatting.
“There wasn’t anything weird going on,” Dave is saying, leaning against the hood of his car. They’re just far away enough that they probably think they’re out of earshot but they’re not. “She’s a friend, someone I’ve known for years.”
“I saw it, Dave! She was all over you. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Tyler and Christine glare at the ground, trying to pretend they can’t hear what’s going on. I toss my bag and my instrument case onto Christine’s backseat and walk around to the front. Marcus plunks down on the curb in front of the car.
“She’s always had a crush on you. You’re just too blind to see it.”
Dave laughs, low and quiet, and in the light from the streetlamp behind him, I can see him shaking his head. “Why are you being like this? I already told you nothing is happening with Jamie or anyone else. I care about you.”
Dave’s voice breaks on the last word. And in some way, I do feel for him. He is obviously crazy for Ana. We all know that. But he did have his arm around Jamie. Even if it was just a friendly thing . . .
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
If Marcus ever started flirting with another girl, it would rip me apart. It’s kind of hard to tell who’s right here. Maybe they both are.
“Look, I’m tired of this,” Dave says, his voice low. “We fight all the time. I love you, but I can’t do this. We can’t go on like this.”
Tyler leans back onto his arms, slowly, and I can see that he’s as uncomfortable about hearing this as the rest of us are.
“Let’s go,” Riley mouths to me. I nod and start to walk toward the stadium, and Marcus follows.
“Then stop.” Ana’s voice is shrill. “Stop being so frustrating. Stop canceling on me and flirting with other girls and being so selfish. You’re making me crazy.”
Christine sees us and slides off the hood and moves toward us.
Dave is quiet, but I can see his shoulders hunch up. He turns and begins to walk around his car and opens the drive
r’s side door.
I freeze.
“Don’t walk away from me.” Ana starts to follow him, and he stops but shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, Ana. I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.” Dave steps into his car and shuts the door. No one says anything when he starts the engine, or when he turns on the lights, or when he carefully backs up and drives away.
The air feels heavy. Ana stands still, frozen under the streetlamp, staring at the empty parking space. I look at Riley, who seems as terrified and confused as I feel. What are we supposed to do? We just watched our best friend get dumped.
Slowly, I turn around and walk toward Ana and put my arms around her. She doesn’t react, but I pull her toward me, and eventually she begins to cry. I hold her for a while and whisper prayers of strength and comfort into her ear.
11
They call it the Passing of the Peace, and it takes forever. At Ana and Riley’s church, they pause the service for two minutes so you can shake hands with the people in the pew in front of you. But at Church of the Redwoods, it sometimes takes half an hour. Everyone gets up from their seats and hugs everybody else, and sometimes people get wrapped up in conversations, and, well, they just wait for everyone to be done before they move on. I used to think this was normal, but I’ve been going to church with the Miracle Girls more and more, and I slowly came to realize that everything about the church where I grew up is different. And while there’s something nice about having other kids my age, and a real building, and some kind of normal teaching, Church of the Redwoods will always be home to me, a sacred space.
The Miracle Girls wanted me to go to church with them today, but Dreamy was sniffling this morning, wiping her nose on her sleeves as she got ready for church, so I told them I wasn’t going to make it after all.
I want to support Dreamy. It’s just that being here is strange. Right now Dreamy’s talking with Mrs. Scholl, a jolly overweight woman with long, gray hair who gave me a sticker book when I had the flu when I was five. She keeps shooting me pitying looks, and I want to disappear.
Dreamy and Ed helped start Church of the Redwoods, back before Nick was born. My parents met in the streets of Berkeley, protesting the Vietnam War, and they both came to faith through some weird hippie thing called the Jesus movement. Basically, it was a bunch of flower children who found Jesus, and if you listen to Dreamy and Ed talk, it changed everything about the church. It certainly changed everything for them, anyway. More than thirty years later, here we are.
I mean, here Dreamy and I are. This is the first Sunday I can remember at Church of the Redwoods without Ed, and there’s a deep ache gnawing at me. He should be here. I take a deep breath of the sweet, cool air and pull my sweater tighter around me. It doesn’t feel right. Nothing about this feels right anymore.
I sit alone, watching as people I’ve known my whole life throw their arms around Dreamy, pulling her in tightly, laying their hands on her and praying. I am glad that she has this community, these people to stand by her when she needs it most. I just wish things were different.
I bow my head and whisper a prayer to God. Why hasn’t he answered me? Why is he taking so long to fix everything? Is this some kind of test?
12
“We are not calling our country Bob.” I tap my pen on the plastic table. Between worrying about Dreamy and Ed and worrying about Ana and Dave, it’s almost a relief to be back at school today.
“But it’s such a likeable name. Have you ever met someone named Bob who wasn’t nice?” I stare at Dean, but he goes on. “Bobs smile a lot and send their grandmothers birthday cards. Bob is the golden retriever of names.” He leans back in the plastic library chair and threads his fingers together behind his head. His signature pose.
“Bob is a name for a person, not a country.” I shake my head. We’ve been in the library since school got out, but we’re not any closer to finishing our project. Riley’s brother, Michael, is typing away at a keyboard in the bank of computers by the wall, and he keeps looking up and glaring at us when we get too loud.
“Well, I haven’t seen you come up with something better.”
“I don’t think we should be spending so much time on the whole name thing. We’re supposed to get through currency and legal system today.” I shove my copy of the schedule in his face.
“I guess we could call it Zoeville.”
I glare at him, though part of me wants to laugh a little. “Can we stop being ridiculous please? I have to go soon.”
“Zoeville or Bob. Your choice.”
“I am not choosing between those names.”
“We’ll arm wrestle for it, then.” Dean sticks his elbow on the table, hand straight up.
“I was thinking we could base the currency on a renewable resource, like wheat, instead of gold.” I spent a lot of time researching how money works last night. It turns out a dollar bill is only valuable because it represents a tiny chunk of gold the government owns. The bill doesn’t have any value on its own. It’s only a representation of the stuff that’s really valuable, but if currency was based on something we could all grow, I suspect we might be able to get rid of poverty altogether.
“Bob it is, then.” Dean puts his arm down and picks up his pen, then leans over the form Mrs. Narveson gave us to fill out by next week.
“Wait!” I scream too loudly. The librarian, Mr. Wallace, gives me a dirty look from behind the counter, then turns back to his crossword puzzle. “That’s our official record. We have to turn that thing in for a grade.” Dean drops his pen and puts his hand out in an offer to arm wrestle again. I glare at him, but he doesn’t flinch.
He begins to wiggle his arm to tempt me.
“Whatever.” I rest my elbow on the table and lean in a bit, and he grabs my hand and levels his eyes at me.
“Are you ready?” Dean’s hand practically engulfs mine. Marcus’s hands are thin and bony, but Dean’s is big and warm. “If I win, our country is Bob,” he says. He tilts his head a little, composing his face to look very serious. “If you win, we’re Zoeville. Ready?”
I nod, but he’s already pulling on my hand.
“Hey!” I pull my hand back toward me, but he’s got a solid grip. I twist my arm a little bit, trying to get a better angle. Mr. Wallace clears his throat, but Dean looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Zoe?” I turn my head, yanking my hand away. Marcus stands behind us, his eyes wide. Dean smiles up at Marcus, without a care in the world.
“We were just naming our country,” I say quickly. “This is Dean. My history partner?” Marcus steps forward, his face pale in the fluorescent lights, and Dean stands up and holds out his hand. “Dean, this is my boyfriend, Marcus.”
“Good to meet you, man,” Dean says with a devilish look in his eyes. Marcus shakes his hand a little uncertainly, then steps back and studies us. “Zoe’s always talking about you. It’s cool to finally meet you.” He gestures to the empty plastic chair across the table. Marcus’s jaw relaxes, but he shakes his head.
“Zoe, my mom is waiting. We were supposed to be out by the band room ten minutes ago.”
“Oh my goodness. I’m sorry!” I begin to grab at the papers scattered across the table. “I was supposed to meet Marcus after he finished his lab. He’s working on this cool thing with steam.” I’m talking too much, and my hands are moving too quickly, but I get the papers shoved into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Marcus waits, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“I’m sorry. I have to run,” I say to Dean, who smiles and nods.
“No problem. Sorry to keep you.” He smiles at me, then shifts his eyes to Marcus. “And I’ll see you around, Marcus.”
Marcus puts his arm on my waist. I want to explain that we were just playing around, that it wasn’t at all what it looked like, that Dean is just my stupid slacker history partner, but I don’t. We both stay silent as we walk out the door.
13
Mrs. Farcus drops me off at home, and I see I’m still d
ealing with the new normal—which is to say, everything is still screwed up. Nick is on the computer, doing some kind of pointless graphics thing, I have a voice mail from Ed telling me all about his new handyman gigs with a sad voice, and Dreamy is hunched over the picnic table, hands shoved into a five-gallon bucket. Her long brown ponytail hangs limp down her back. I watch as she moves her hands around for a bit and then lifts a wooden screen out of the bucket, squinting in the bright sunlight.
“Zoe!” She drags the back of her arm across her forehead and steps inside the open glass door. “Check this out.” She holds the papers, still wet, in front of me. “I’m testing out different scents. What do you think?”
I reach for a sheet and hold it up to my nose. It smells like vanilla.
“I like this one,” I say uncertainly. Dreamy has been recycling paper by hand for years, well before it was a cool hobby, turning old tissue paper and newsprint into note cards and fancy stationery.
“I talked to Linda Cunningham down at Seaside Gifts yesterday.” She takes the vanilla-scented sheet from my hands and gives me another. The smell of evergreen reaches my nose. “She said she might be willing to take some of my cards on consignment, so I wanted to try out a few different types.”
I reach for another and take a whiff of lavender. It’s really strong, like she emptied a whole bottle of lavender oil into the pulpy mix. I run my hand over the textured surface, noting the thick grain of the paper.
“She thinks I could sell them for two or three dollars each. Can you believe that?” My mom’s sleeves are pushed up around her elbows, and her forehead is dotted with sweat. Her eyes are wide, her face hopeful.
“I like this one.” I hand it back to her. Truthfully, it’s not much different from her others, or from cards I’ve seen in stores, but it seems to make her happy to hear it.