Covering the Quarterback

by Amber Thielman

  “No, just as friends,” I said. “Friends do stuff like that sometimes. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “So. A movie?”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar.”

  “Of course, you do.”

  “I’m a busy man, Harrison.”

  “You know what?” I said, rambling on before I could stop myself. “Forget it. Forget I even asked.”

  “But I—”

  “No, seriously, pretend I never said anything.” I put my hands up in surrender and leaned back. “It was a stupid idea. Nobody likes those old movies anyway, right?”

  I could tell that Jackson was struggling to find something to say, something that wouldn’t hurt my feelings too badly, but he came up with nothing. Before he could conjure up some lame excuse, I grabbed my book and my backpack and stood up.

  “I’ll see you,” I said, and tossed the paper into the nearest trash can. Then I walked away before we could stand staring at each other awkwardly for another second longer.

  It was difficult not to feel just a little bit humiliated for the rest of the day, and despite how much I tried, I couldn’t pinpoint why I felt so shitty about that interaction with Jackson. I guess if I was honest with myself, it was because my fears were confirmed; Jackson and I weren’t friends. He didn’t want anyone to see us together, despite how sweet he could be when no one was around. I hated that. I hated feeling used, and now I knew that’s what this whole thing was. I wrote interesting articles about what an incredible quarterback he was, and Jackson reaped the benefits of looking like the school’s star student. The girls loved it, I was sure, and it was clear now that he did, too.

  Although I didn’t have anybody to go to the movie that night with me, I forced myself to go home and grab a blanket so I could enjoy the night by myself. I didn’t need anyone to go with me anyway. I could be independent and self-sufficient, unlike many college girls who depended heavily on their cliques and rude boyfriends. I didn’t want to be home alone tonight to wallow in my thoughts, and I also wasn’t feeling the bar scene, so later that evening I found myself back on the quad, by myself, to enjoy the outdoor movie like a normal person.

  I found an empty little spot way in the back, out of the line of the judgmental and curious stares of my peers. I sat down and leaned back against the tree, pulling the blanket around my lap, ignoring the chatty friends and happy couples on the lawn all around me. I checked my phone for some sign of socialization, but there was nothing, not even a nightly text from my mom. Suddenly, I felt very, very alone.

  As we all waited for the movie to start, I reached for my little bag of M&M’s and popped a couple into my mouth. It was starting to get chilly as the sun went down, but I didn’t mind. It was cozy out here, huddled up under a blanket. I made a mental note to try and do more social things like this . . . with or without company.

  At nine o’clock sharp, the picture on the side of the building came to life, and the sound vibrated through the crowd. A hush fell over everyone, and I watched the couples cuddle up together as they munched on their popcorn and sipped their drinks. I pulled the blanket further up around my shoulders and settled back to watch the movie. As the intro to the show started up, the sweet melody playing, I heard a group of girls behind me start to giggle. I ignored it, trying to focus on the screen, but after a moment the giggles got out of hand, and I turned to shush them. Before I could, however, Jackson was suddenly standing next to me. He had a blanket under one arm and a bag of goodies in the other.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered. “I had to get snacks.”

  Speechless, I said nothing as Jackson settled down on the grass next to me, pulling the blanket over his legs as he handed me the bag of junk food. I glanced over my shoulder to where the group of single girls were watching him, whispering and giggling. They were eyeing me with part curiosity and part disgust. Jackson ignored them.

  “Is this going to put a dent in your reputation?” I asked finally.

  “A movie with a friend on the quad? I doubt it,” he said. “But if it does, I’m blaming you.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  A comfortable silence fell over us, and Jackson and I were quiet as the movie began. He offered me a homemade bag of popcorn, and I handed him some M&M’s and Licorice. We snacked through the show, laughing with the crowd, and even tearing up a bit near the end. Well, he did, and I pretended not to notice. I found myself hyperaware of his presence next to me, but I tried not to act any differently than if it had been Alex sitting next to me.

  When the movie ended, neither Jackson nor I made a move to get up. Other couples and groups of friends gathered their things, blankets and empty popcorn bags and boxes of candy under their arms and sauntered away, laughing over something stupid or reminiscing about the movie. Jackson and I continued to wait, eating our M&M’s and tossing popcorn into our mouths. Ten minutes went by, then twenty. By half an hour, the quad was body-free, and we were still sitting quietly under the tree, in the dark, warmed by the blankets. It was a pleasant moment, a minute of peace and serenity. No arguing, no thinking too hard about useless things. Just us, in the moment, simply being.

  “I just don’t find the fascination in old movies,” Jackson said after a while. I looked over at him. He was still propped up against the tree. As I watched him, he set the empty bags aside and slipped down so he was on his back on the grass, staring up at the night sky.

  “I don’t either,” I admitted, and he looked at me, surprised.

  “I took you for an old movie fanatic,” he said.

  “I like horror films, but they rarely show them here.”

  “What kind of horror films?”

  “Scary ones,” I said. “Not like slasher/bloody/gruesome ones. Thrillers that captivate you and draw you into their world. You know, the kind of movie that has you staring at the screen at the end, trying to figure out what in the hell just happened.”

  “I know the type,” Jackson said.

  “If I didn’t want to be a journalist, I’d write screenplays,” I admitted. “Brilliant ones, like M. Night Shyamalan style.” I slid down from my butt and onto my back so we were side by side, both of us staring at the brilliant night sky.

  “I bet you’d be great at that,” Jackson said. I shrugged, reaching for the bag of M&M’s. I reached into the baggie and withdrew a handful of them, picking out the ones I didn’t want and sticking the blue one in my mouth to suck on it, a weird habit I’d always had with chocolate.

  “Why the blue one?” Jackson asked. “Is blue your favorite color?”

  “Close enough,” I said with a shrug. “Aqua is my favorite color, but as far as I know, they don’t make turquoise-colored M&M’s.” I looked at Jackson, savoring the sweetness of the candy between my lips. “What about you?” I asked. “I told you that I’d be a screenwriter . . . but what would you do if you could do anything in the world?”

  “I like football. I love football.” The way he said it made me do a double take. I propped myself up on one arm and watched his face under the moonlight; saw the reflection in his eyes, the tired lines etched into his skin and the way that silly little smile highlighted the dimple in his cheek. He was quiet for a moment, staring up at the stars. I said nothing, waiting for him to go on. Sometimes, the best thing a friend could do was just listen.

  “My dad was a football player, you know,” Jackson said. “All throughout high school and college until he was injured and couldn’t play anymore. He lost his scholarship, and he eventually became a high school coach. From the moment I was born, he saw he had a son, and all his dreams came true.” He chuckled, but there was a tiny hint of something I could only describe as bitterness behind it.

  “He had a plan for you,” I said. After a moment, Jackson nodded.

  “Only one plan, ever. It was the most obvious thing in the world to him; his son would walk in his footsteps and become the same exact man he was. Only, since he’d
failed, I couldn’t. He wanted me to be a better version of him.”

  “Wanted you to, or wants you to?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  We were quiet for a moment, listening to a blast of sirens in the distance. I clasped my hands over my stomach and turned my head again to look at him.

  “No one can be the same person,” I said. “That’s not how the universe made us.”

  Jackson said nothing, but I knew he was listening, pondering my words. I rolled slightly to the left and propped myself up on one elbow so that my body was facing him.

  “Do you still talk to your parents?” I asked. There was silence as Jackson mulled this over in his mind, and for a long moment, I was sure he wasn’t going to answer me.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “They came to the homecoming game, actually, but didn’t stay long.”

  “That was sweet of them,” I said.

  “They were in the city.” Jackson shrugged. “He never misses a football game, you know, my dad doesn’t. He’s missed his fair share of choir concerts and honors awards, but he never misses a game.”

  “And your mom?”

  “My mom is a teacher,” he said. “Well, she was. She resigned a few years ago because my father thought she was spending too much time away from home.”

  “Do you have younger siblings?” I asked. Jackson looked at me.

  “No. My dad is just too controlling to be okay with her living her life.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Jackson shrugged and laced his hands behind his head. “Only she can stand up to him, right? And besides, since I don’t live there anymore I don’t have to deal with it every day. I mean, I see them occasionally on holidays and, but I try to avoid spending too much time with them. My dad knows how to push my buttons. All we do anymore when we’re together is fight.”

  “Do you fight with your mom, too?” I asked.

  “We don’t have much of a relationship either way,” Jackson admitted. “She’s always been soft-spoken; kind of a pushover. My dad rules the house with an iron fist, so when he’s angry with me, then she’s upset with me, too.” He looked over at me and smiled, just barely, but that small little smile made my stomach do funny, unfamiliar things. “I like where I am, and I still give my dad credit for pushing me to my full potential.” He rolled his head back to the sky, falling quiet. I was still propped up on my side, gazing at him under the light of the full moon and the sky full of brilliant stars.

  “If you didn’t play football, what would you do?” I asked.

  “That’s a silly question,” he said. “I love football.”

  “If you didn’t play football, what would you do?” I asked again. Jackson chuckled mirthlessly. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but I kept on watching him, admiring the way the moon and the stars made his eyes glisten in the dark.

  “I would be a lawyer,” he said finally. “My major is law, actually, but it probably won’t go anywhere.”

  For some reason, this answer surprised me. I’d only ever seen Jackson Tate as a stereotypical, jock of a college guy. He was the quarterback, football star, attractive golden boy. To hear him talk about something other than sports caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected he’d even tell me.

  “So, why don’t you?” I asked. “Become a lawyer, I mean.”

  “Because,” he said. “I play football.”

  “You can’t play football forever.”

  “Not forever,” he agreed. “But my dad hates the fact that I want to be a lawyer. He reprimands me relentlessly for it.”

  “Why? That’s a remarkable career.”

  “Because I want to do it for all the reasons he hates,” Jackson said. “I want to work pro bono overseas, advocating for refugees seeking asylum in the United States.”

  “Seriously?” I said. I hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, but it was too late to try and hide it now.

  “Seriously,” he said, smiling. “They have some volunteer programs around the country that recruit medical and legal volunteers. I’ve already considered a few of them.”

  “That’s . . . amazing,” I said. “I never would have pegged you for the type. Like, never.”

  “Most people don’t.” Jackson looked over at me. There were goosebumps on his bare arms from the chill in the air, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I never pegged you for the type to write political articles, either,” he said. “But the second time we met, when that paper fell out of your bag; you wrote that, didn’t you?”

  I looked away from him and focused my gaze on the night sky, counting a cluster of glittering stars. I nodded, but couldn’t bring myself to look at him.

  “I don’t enjoy the fluff pieces the college paper makes me write,” I admitted. “But if it’s a foot in the door, I’ll do it anyway.”

  “What do you want to write about?”

  “Anything and everything that matters in this world,” I said. “Politics. Religion. Human rights.” I shrugged. “You probably won’t believe me when I tell you that I also want to report overseas, writing political pieces on the devastation and pain that innocent people in other countries face every day.”

  “The women and children and fathers who have no escape route,” Jackson said, and I nodded.

  “Yeah. These innocent people, terrified for their lives and dictated by an oppressive government. They’re innocents like you and me, you know? Only, they're caught in the middle of these wars, unable to escape.” I took a deep breath, remembering an article I’d read once on all the children under the age of thirteen killed in the war. The number haunted me to this day; around ten thousand since 2011, and the numbers were still rising. “I think people need awareness,” I said. “Especially Americans living our sheltered lives. If I could educate people on the issue, maybe it would change.”

  “Ignorance is bliss,” Jackson said. I rolled over onto my back and rested my hands on my stomach, staring at the sky. Silence settled between us, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind of quiet that was rare.

  As we laid in the grass on our backs, side by side, taking in the sky and the moon and the stars, everything, at that very moment, seemed at peace.

  Chapter 24

  Jackson

  “What’s this?”

  “This is you making it up to me,” Grace said. “I told you this was going to happen. Just take the bag.”

  It had been three days since the movie, three days since our conversation in the dark on the grassy field. I’d received a text an hour earlier from Grace asking me to meet her on the quad ASAP. It was a Saturday, and I’d dragged my butt out of bed way too early to face this rainy, foggy morning, but for some reason, I’d still done it.

  “I fear for whatever this is,” I said. Grace handed me the plastic bag she’d been carrying, and I reached my hand into it, wondering if this was a sick prank and something in there was going to nip my fingers off. What I pulled out was even worse than any creature with fangs.

  “It’s an inflatable vagina,” I said, letting the enormous pink thing dangle from one finger.

  “It is,” Grace confirmed. “And you’re going to wear it while you march in the Women’s Rights parade in half an hour.”

  “You’re kidding.” I knew she wasn’t.

  “You said you’d make it up to me,” Grace said. “This is it, Jackson.”

  “You forced me out of bed at seven-thirty on a Saturday to march through downtown Seattle with a toy vagina?”

  “It’s not a toy,” Grace said. “It’s a statement.” She pointed at the words written on the vagina in bold, black letters with a Sharpie: WOMEN ARE MORE THAN JUST BODIES. Then she turned around to pick up a travel mug of what I hoped was something hot to drink and handed it to me. “I brought you coffee. Does that make up for it?”

  “Yes,” I said, taking a sip. I grimaced as the foul, bitter liquid hit my tongue, gagging. “No. Did you make this?” I held the cup away from me.

  “Yes. Why, what’s wrong
with it?”

  “Nothing, it’s great.” I spat a coffee ground from between my teeth and tucked the inflatable vagina under my free arm. “Are you sure there’s nothing else—anything else—that I can do to apologize for teasing you in high school?”

  “Nope, this is what I want,” Grace said. She picked up her mug of coffee and took a drink without even choking on it. “You want to advocate for refugees someday, Jackson, so you should know politics and human rights cover so much more than just that. With the presidential elections coming up, I know you’re aware there’s been quite a fight against one of our sexist, bigoted presidential nominees.”

  And I did know. I knew all too well the crisis growing in the election run because politics was something I secretly kept up to date on during my free time away from friends. Had Tyler ever seen me reading up on America Today, he’d tease me for months for being an intellectual idiot. (I had yet to tell him that calling someone an intellectual idiot was a contradiction, but since I wasn’t even sure he knew the definition of contradiction, I’d kept it to myself and let him get his kicks out of using it as an insult.)

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll march with you.”

  “I know you will.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when Alex picked us up in her little car to take us to the starting point of the women’s march downtown. She wore an entire outfit colored pastel pink, a color that looked so ridiculous on her that she might as well have rolled in Pepto Bismol for the same effect. A large sign pinned to her front read: I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR with WE WILL NOT BE SILENT on her back. I couldn’t imagine anybody in their right mind, especially a man, would ever try to silence Alex if anything for the pure terror of being shanked. I didn’t comment on it because I didn’t want to be the one she went after. Grace, whose sign was a bit more conservative but still bold, read, “Speak Your Mind, Even if Your Voice Shakes.” I didn’t want to be the one to tell her it might have been more appropriate in her case to have it read: “Speak Your Mind, Even if You Ramble Pointlessly.”