It feels awkward, just sitting there. So your arm goes around her—you try not to be stiff about it. She nestles into you; her class ring flashes in the dim light as she rests her hand on your thigh. You figure you ought to say something but don’t know what.
Both of you sit there without a word; people walk by in the parking lot; their voices come and go while the warmth of Heather’s hand seeps through your jeans.
“Don’t be mad,” she says again, softly—she’s very still, her head on your chest so that you can’t see her face. You don’t say anything. You’re not mad, really—not anymore. Just deflated.
It’s a slow infusion of electricity when her hand begins to move. “I don’t like you to be angry with me,” she says, and her hand’s sliding deliberately up your thigh.
It disappears under your shirttail.
“What are you doing?” you ask, though her knuckles are warm against your belly, tugging your pants The air in the truck is so still all of a sudden that you hardly breathe.
Her voice is muffled against your chest. “If you me to stop, just say so.”
You’re no fool; you don’t say so. Her hand gets busy; your breath gets ragged. It doesn’t take long before your body breaks into one of those tiny uncontrolled shudders, and you hear a low, pleased laugh from Heather. That’s when you try to get her to look up so you can kiss her quick and drive to someplace private—but she pulls away.
And lowers her head to your lap.
There are two worlds: One, outside the open window, people walking by, laughing, talking, coming perilously close to the pickup—which, thankfully, is high off the ground—while you struggle to look straight ahead and keep your face empty of expression. Like a guy who’s just sitting there, bored. The other world is inside the cab of the pickup; sounds and the feel of Heather’s hair moving back and forth like silk under your hand, and the strained quiver you finally give, trying not to move or cry out.
You’re still dazed when she sits up and peers into your face. “Did you like that?”
“Yes.” Your voice is thick. You pull your jeans back together, a little embarrassed because she seems so matter-of-fact, while for you this was quite an amazing thing.
“Did you know your eyes go out of focus when touch you down there?” she asks, smoothing her hair as she settles back into her seat. “You forget to be all mad and serious. I like that. I like making Mr. Good Influence lose control.”
Okay, so she’s not a tease. She just likes things to be her idea.
Which is okay with you; turns out she’s got some pretty good ideas. It’s only a few weeks after that the two of you end up parked out behind the old Methodist church, at the end of a dirt road under a tree. And before that evening’s done you’ve gotten down to business with Heather Mackenzie unbuttoned, unhooked, unzipped, and underneath you on the seat your own pickup.
Yep, Heather’s ideas scatter bad feelings the way puff of air scatters dust.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sixth game. Final score: Panthers, 21; Bulldogs, 10.
On the way home, everybody is hollering, hanging out the bus windows, messing around like this is some crazed field trip. You’re right there with them, waving and yelling at every car that passes.
Well, almost everybody. In the seat ahead of you, Curtis sits stiff and silent. He won’t turn around, won’t talk to anybody, even though the game is over and he doesn’t need to concentrate anymore.
You don’t have to talk to him to know why he’s so quiet. Curtis screwed up tonight. Blew man-to-man coverage on third and ten. He didn’t slip or trip or get outrun. He simply had his head up his ass for a change and was nowhere near the guy he was supposed to be covering.
The bus must be close to halfway home and he still hasn’t said a word.
You lean forward over the seat. “We won,” you remind Curtis, right in his ear.
Curtis doesn’t even turn his head. He’s probably doing his own visualizing now, watching himself over and over, seeing himself realize that the guy streaking toward the end zone is his guy.
He’s always like this. There are two things that really bother Curtis; one is not having Kat. The other one is screwing up in football.
Tonight, his screwup kept a Bulldog drive alive. In Curtis’s book, that means he hand delivered them a touchdown.
“Listen,” you tell the back of his head. “Forget it. Coach’ll remind you quick enough.”
A car honks outside. This one has purple-and-white crepe paper streaming from the antenna; Go Panthers is written on the windows in shoe polish. Everybody else on the left side of the bus is cheering out the windows.
“Go get drunk with Dobie,” you try, feeling bad for not offering to dump Heather for the evening—even though you know Curtis always goes straight home after a bad game. Specifically, after he has a bad game.
When he still doesn’t say anything, you give up. Let him act like that, if he wants. He doesn’t need any help from you, anyway.
You know what’ll happen. He’ll mope around all evening. It’ll take him the rest of the night to get things back in perspective. In the end, he’ll remind himself to be more alert next time. And in the morning, he’ll be calm and cool and ready to face those game films. The game films won’t be able to tell Curtis anything he doesn’t already know.
You lean out the window again, feeling the wind lift the still-sweaty hair from your scalp. With the kind of mood Curtis is in right now, it’s actually a mercy that he’s going straight home. Being around Curtis would be even worse than sitting home alone.
You didn’t screw up tonight. Well, you did drop a couple of catches, but still it was you personally who put two-thirds of the points on the board. You’ve got no reason to feel bad, not next to Curtis.
And shoot, even if you did have a reason for feeling bad—which you don’t—you’d never act like it. You’d take that reason for feeling bad, and stick it in the back of your mind. You’d shove it down inside and keep your mouth shut and lie low until everybody else forgot what happened.
You keep your head and one arm out the window, letting the wind plug your ears. You shut your eyes and feel the air rushing by, feel the bus wheels whine under you. The great thing about handling mistakes your way is that after awhile your screwups and hurts don’t matter anymore.
Down deep inside you there’s a big old pile of things that everybody but you has forgotten.
At the field house, whoops and yells and laughter are billowing around you.
“Way to be,” somebody says; a hand pounds your shoulder, so you figure whoever it is must be talking to you.
“Thanks,” you say, not bothering to look around. Curtis came in, grabbed his clothes, and left; he’ll change at home.
“Great game, Reid,” somebody says.
You don’t bother to say thanks this time. You just nod and bend to tie your shoe.
“Hey, Austin. You going out?”
It’s Dobie, coming around the corner of the lockers with a wet mop braced on his shoulder.
“Yeah,” you answer.
Dobie slops the mop onto the floor where Stargill was squirting Gatorade all over the place. He swirls the mop around, painting huge wet circles. “Want to come with me and Jason and Brett? We’re going to get some beer.”
“Sorry, can’t make it,” you say.
“C’mon, Austin. It’ll be fun. We might rent some videos. You know,” he says, leaning forward to whisper. “Videos.”
“No, thanks.”
Dobie shakes his head. “I always thought Curtis was bad when he was going out with Kat,” he says, giving the mop an extra flourish, “but Heather has flat out busted your balls.”
“Shut up,” you snap at him.
The mop stops. A moment later it starts moving again, but not leisurely like before. Now it’s a quick back-and-forth. When you glance over, you see one spot of red flaming Dobie’s cheek like somebody slapped him.
Of course—he was kidding, the way the two of
you always kidded Curtis. You were supposed to kid back.
If Curtis was here—and not sitting around like a gargoyle—he’d say, “What’s got into you?”
“Sorry, Dobe,” you tell him, ashamed.
Dobie nods once, quickly, his eyes on his work. When he’s done he picks up the mop, shoulders it, and scurries off without looking back.
You turn back to your locker. You said you’re sorry—what else can you do?
Nothing, tonight. Because Heather’s waiting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the field house Monday afternoon, Dobie seems okay. He nods and says hi. He doesn’t ask how your date went, or start chattering about his weekend like he sometimes does. But then, he’s pretty busy with his duties.
Coach calls for full pads. He says he’s going out to the field, and everybody’d better be with him in five minutes. “Move it, girls,” he says on his way out the door. “I’m not in the mood to baby-sit.”
Curtis has to know what’s coming. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though; he asks how it went with Heather Friday night. You say fine. The two of you finish dressing out.
What’s coming doesn’t bother him, but it bothers you. It shouldn’t—God knows you’ve done your share of hammering other guys during Bull-in-a-Ring. But it does bother you; just a little, that’s all. Like gum on the bottom of your shoe, that you can’t quite scrape off. Because there’s no point in doing this—Curtis doesn’t need to be pounded into the ground for a mistake he’s already suffered over, fought through, and won. Not Curtis, who thinks of football as a higher form of art.
Probably that’s why your chest is a little tight. Even though you know this drill isn’t any big deal. No big deal. not really. And it’s probably why you can’t quite bring yourself to look at Curtis.
“Go ahead,” you tell him, bending to tie your shoe on the bench in front of the locker. “I’ll be out in a second.”
“You okay?” Curtis asks. As if it’s you who’s about get gored and trampled.
“Yeah.” Your face feels like it’s turning to stone. Curtis goes on outside. When you pull the shoelace, intending to tighten it, your hands jerk so hard that snaps in two.
By the time you find a new lace, get it into your cleats a head out to the field, warm-ups are almost over. You have time to do a few quick stretches, because Coach telling everybody to form the ring.
“On account of forgetting who he was supposed cover,” he announces. “Hightower gets the weekly Head up His Ass Award.”
Brett Stargill’s standing across from you, feet planted like tree trunks, a faint smile flickering like sunlight over his face. Your own face feels so stiff it could shatter. You lift your dangling chin strap, snap it into place.
Curtis steps into the center without a word.
“Everybody down,” Coach commands.
“Set.” Across the ring, Stargill hunkers down at same time you do; he’s your mirror image.
Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Jason Cox. Immediately, Cox blasts off his straight into Curtis. But Curtis is crouched and ready and when they meet, he actually drives Cox back a step or two.
For some reason you’re remembering something you haven’t thought about in years; you and Curtis, ten years old, sneaking one of Curtis’s dad’s cigars out to the trees beyond the stock tank. Feeling hard-edged and bold, trading puffs—till you noticed Curtis’s face was kind green, and then you couldn’t deny the fact you were getting pretty sick yourself.
Cox trots back into the circle, into the wrong place. Coach already has his whistle back in his mouth.
Tweeet! He points to Shea, who takes his shot. He and Curtis come together like two rams, and the impact forces Curtis back almost to the other side. Shea’s quicker than Cox at getting back into the circle.
You’re remembering how you and Curtis laid there till the world stopped spinning, then tottered weakly back over to Curtis’s house, side by side, swearing a solemn vow never to touch tobacco again.
Tweeet! Thomas’s turn.
And when you walked inside, Curtis’s mom was looking out the kitchen window saying “Is that smoke out there?” And sure enough a spark had caught in the dried-up late summer grass. The Parkersville Volunteer Fire Department came, which was exciting, and a deputy from the county sheriff, which wasn’t, because you threw up all over his boots and he threatened to arrest you.
Tweeet! Ragsdale.
Curtis is still standing. He’s the one who told you they don’t arrest kids for throwing up. You already knew it but you were still scared, till Curtis said it out loud—that made it true.
Tweeet! Coach’s finger points to you.
You explode.
The next thing you know, Curtis is lying on his back with you on top of him. You don’t look at his face, just get up quickly; Curtis is slower, but Coach is already blowing his whistle again and then suddenly Curtis is down again, this time hit from behind by Brett Stargill. When he gets up he’s a little unsteady, with a clot of turf stuck in his face mask.
Coach calls them on from the front, from the sides, from behind, where Curtis can’t see it coming.
And then it doesn’t matter because Coach is calling them on so fast that Curtis barely has time to get to feet, much less look around.
When Coach finally gives it an extra-long now-we’re-done blow, Curtis lies there and doesn’t get right away.
“Everybody line up for wind sprints,” Coach hollers.
You’re frozen, staring down at your best friend curled up on the ground like a dead shrimp.
“Reid! You deaf? Line up for wind sprints.”
So you do what you have to do; you shove down whatever it is you’re feeling and walk away; you watch yourself walk away and get in line with everybody else.
When you look back to check, Curtis is wincing as he gets to his feet. He doesn’t mind, he knows it’s just business. But still, it might take awhile to shove this one down—the fact that you let Curtis get up from Bull-in-a-Ring without any help.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s a comfort to watch Heather get dressed.
Mrs. Mackenzie is out with Ronny. What’s left of the afternoon is leaking away and you’re just lying on Heather’s bed, wide awake, eyes open, because getting up is as impossible as floating off the ground.
She’s already got her panties on—that breath catching little scrap of silk. You love the way she pulls the of her bra together, love the way her breasts seem expand, as if pushed in and up by unseen hands.
She snaps the bra closed, reaches for her blouse…and sees you watching.
She tosses the blouse aside and turns toward mirror. A quick glance at you again before she focuses her own reflection, as if she’s forgotten you’re there.
She hasn’t. You know by now: It’s a comfort Heather to let you watch her get dressed.
Looking at her, at that beautiful face and all those breathtaking ins and outs, you can admit the truth—don’t really care about anything else. Don’t particularly care about your friends, your family, school. Even Bull-in-a-Ring is a distant memory, because now you are here.
The mattress cradles you like a cocoon. You’d like just to lie here, flatter and flatter, and never have to leave this place.
“You know something?” Heather winds one lock of hair slowly around her finger. “You’re the first guy I’ve let in my room. I never let guys in. Never.” When she lets the lock of hair fall, it brushes her skin just above the champagne-colored lace.
“One time,” she continues, staring into her own eyes—Heather can get as caught up in her reflection as you can in the real thing—“Brad Echols came around throwing pebbles at my window, trying to get me to let him in. But I wouldn’t. That’s silly, isn’t it?” She turns her head a little to one side, checking her face from a slightly different angle. “I mean, not letting guys in. Because my room is a lot safer than the couch if Mom comes back all of a sudden. It’s not like, roll off the couch and get
dressed right away—can you say high school? There’s always a scene if Mom even thinks I’ve done something, the hypocrite.”
Always? you think, and wonder—not for the time—how many guys she’s been with. But you don’t want to ask, because then she might ask you the same about your exes.
Instead you watch the way her hair slides and swings over her shoulder blades. “Want to hear something funny?” Heather says, and goes on without waiting for an answer. “The first guy I dated—he was a real jerk. An older guy—he was seventeen, and I was thirteen. I only ever did it with him in the first place because I was scared I’d lose him if I didn’t. But then after we did do it, I was still scared that he’d get bored. So I was like this doormat, letting him do whatever he wanted. Can you imagine being a doormat?” Again, she doesn’t wait for an answer. “Every single time I’d just end up underneath him and he’d just keep going until he was finished. And I’d be left with nothing but this awful, empty feeling, and sticky underwear for the rest of the night. So I finally got up the guts to dump him. And guess what he did?”
“I don’t know.”
“He cried. Can you believe it?”
She laughs. Something in her voice chills you a little. You pull the sheet up higher over your chest.
You don’t know what you’ll say if she asks you about your first time. It actually was a lot like Heather described, except you didn’t “keep going.” It was over so quick barely even got going. It happened during a commercial break while you and the girl were at her house watching TV. Of course, you’d been kissing and touching each other for a long time, but the main event was finished so quickly you didn’t even miss any of Saturday Night Live.
Heather doesn’t ask you anything. She turns away from the mirror, bends to pick up her blouse from the floor. “Blech! Makeup stain.” She drops the blouse and gives you a mock glare. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t see it.”
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