by Tom Leveen
“Awesome! Thanks! I’ll meet you right back here.”
And she’s off, squirreling through the crowd shouting something that sounds like “Out ’n’ at her!” which makes no sense to me whatsoever, and that’s okay.
I step off the sidewalk to avoid the people crushing into the stadium. Mostly old people, like parents. But lurking under the bleachers near the fence, I see a kid wearing a purple-and-black plaid kilt. It looks like mine except mine is green. I can’t help but walk over to him. It beats the looks I’m getting for, I can only presume, my T-shirt, which reads in white block letters: DRUGS ARE MY ANTI-SPORT.
“Hey.”
He scans me in that practiced way of career criminals. “ … Hey?”
“You like MacDougall Clan?”
The kid grins, putting out a hand. “My brother.”
We shake, which feels kind of weird and kind of cool at the same time.
“You ever seen them live?” I move to stand under the bleachers with him, shoving my hands deep into my hip pockets. Just regular old jeans tonight. My only pair, really. I wonder if Cadence has noticed they’re not black, or if she cares.
“Last year,” the kid says. “Got my jaw broke in the pit.”
“No shit?”
“Not a drop.”
He’s scanning again, like he’s either looking for someone in particular, or not wanting to get snuck up on. It occurs to me that his back is to concrete; no one can approach him from behind. Maybe he really is a criminal.
“You can’t exactly see the game from here,” I say.
“Posit,” he says. “Teenagers are more depressed and angry now than at any other time in this fine nation’s history.”
Posit means something like, put up a topic for debate. I think. I’m not sure what else to say, so I opt for a safe, neutral, “Okay.”
“Consequence: they will do anything or take anything to alter these feelings. Result: they will pay any price just to survive from day to day. Conclusion?”
“Um … no idea, man.”
Acting pleased with my answer, he says, “Conclusion: there’s cash to be made selling stuff to pathetic losers who come to football games. Are you cool?”
It takes a second to process all that, but then it sinks in, and I say, “Yeah, I’m cool.”
“Thought so. You’re Danny Jennings.”
“How’d you know that?”
“If I didn’t make it my business to know that, I wouldn’t have this lucrative job under the bleachers, Danny-boy.”
I glance around. In this three square feet of space we’re technically alone, but there are literally hundreds of adults everywhere else, and at least two uniformed cops wandering around.
“So it’s safe under here?” I say.
“So far, so good. It’s the irony they can’t handle, see. Surely I wouldn’t be doing anything illegal here, surrounded by so many people. Get it?”
“Right. So what do you have?”
“You in the market for something?”
“Might be. Yes.”
“Tell you what,” Pete says, scanning the area again before reaching into the waist of his kilt. He palms a tightly rolled joint over to me with the liquid efficiency of a real pro.
I quickly slip it into my pocket. This will be nice for later. I haven’t had any all summer. Honestly I hate the taste—it usually makes me want to throw up. But at least I stay not pissed for a while.
“You let me know how you like it,” Pete says. “If you want more, find me.”
“Where?”
“Jesus, dude, look at me. I’m not hard to find.”
“How do you know I’m not a cop?”
Pete stares into my eyes. “Because I’d kill you.”
He means it.
Except then he laughs.
“Just kidding. I know who Danny Jennings is. That’s enough for me, man.”
I don’t care much for that response, but it beats getting threatened with death. “Cool,” I say, feeling stupid. “See ya around.”
“Almost certainly. Later, Daniel-san.”
I don’t bother correcting him. I prefer Danny, period, the end. But whatever. Anything’s better than Dan. I start to head back out to the sidewalk, but then stop and face Pete again.
“Hey, man. Do you wear your kilt to school?”
“Of course I do. I’m not a pussy.”
Wonderful.
I vaguely remember that Cadence wanted popcorn, so I head for the concession stand. There’s two long lines already. God damn. I keep my hands in my pockets, trying to look casual and not like I have a joint the size of my pinky in there.
While I’m waiting in line, I look around for Cadence. I spot her on the other side of the field, the home side. She’s talking to some guy who’s sitting in the front row. I don’t recognize him.
Fuck. Fine, whatever. Guess it doesn’t matter. Why am I standing here like a god damn turd buying popcorn for a girl who made it clear we were not going to date—and at a football game, of all places?
Hell with this. I walk back down the sidewalk toward the ticket booth to get out of this god damn stadium, but I pull up short when I see Pete still lounging around near the visitor bleachers, and a girl wearing way-too-short shorts walking furtively away from him. He doesn’t seem to have a line, at least. I guess popcorn’s more popular than what he’s selling.
I snake through the crowd in his direction once again.
“Back for more?” Pete says.
“When are you done for the night?”
“Why, you want to make out?”
“No. But I just bought something from this guy under the bleachers and felt like I could use it right about now.”
Pete smiles. “I like you, Daniel-san. Let’s mosey.”
I turn and leave the stadium—and Cadence—behind.
CADENCE
I work my way through the crowd as everyone looks for a seat. “Coming through, coming through!” I call as I squeeze through them to get to Zach. “Make a hole!”
People get out of the way, or they don’t. It takes a couple minutes for me to get to the home-side bleachers.
“Zach! Zach!”
He looks surprised to see me, but then he totally smiles. Awesome!
“What’s up?” I lean against the short chain-link fence across from him. He’s scored a great seat in the front.
“Just waiting for the game,” Zach says.
“Who are you rooting for?”
“Uh …”
“Trick question! Just kidding. Unless you transferred from the Titans’ school. You didn’t, did you?”
“No. No, I’m a Spartan, born and raised.”
“THIS! IS! SPARTA!” I shout, raising a fist.
That gets the attention of the first few rows. Some people give me You’re Crazy looks, some people laugh, but a few shout it back at me or call out “Aroo!” which is so awesome.
Zach starts laughing out loud, and I love the sound of it.
“Can I just ask you something?” Zach says.
“Sure!”
“You’re not … I mean, this is really you, right? You’re not like on something.”
“You mean drugs?”
“Well—yeah.”
“No! Of course not. This is really me. You can ask my brother, or my parents, they’ll tell you.”
“Your brother go here?”
“He did. He graduated last year. Johnny Fuller, you know him?”
“Never met him. But everyone kind of knew him, I think. What’s he up to?”
“Nothing, really. He said he’s figuring himself out. He might also be lazy, except he has too much energy for that.”
“Too much energy. So that’s how you’re related.”
“Probably!”
The band starts playing an old rock and roll song from I think the fifties, but I can’t remember the name of it. Our band sounds good, I like them. I watch them play for a few seconds, liking how the big brass tubas reflect
the overhead field lights.
I turn to Zach to ask if he likes the band, too, when three girls come walking over. I recognize all three. They’re the ones who drew on Vivian’s face. And it looks like they all know Zach.
“Hey, Zach,” Brianna says.
“Hey, Bree,” Zach says.
The others say hi, and he says hi. I am not seen. They sashay down the front aisle of the bleachers before climbing stairs at the far end. They find seats at the top and start cheering our team to victory. Their shirts are artfully torn and knotted, showing off teeny tiny tummies and huge grown woman boobs. Well, everyone’s showing off but Brianna Montaro. She walks with her shoulders rolled forward a bit, like she doesn’t actually want anyone to be staring at her chest. But if that’s the case, why wear such a revealing shirt? I am so confused.
“So you know them?” I ask Zach.
“Acquainted, mainly. I’ve got a couple classes with Bree.”
“Oh, yeah! THE Brianna Montaro, right?”
“Yeah, why does everyone say it like that?”
I lift one boot, rest the sole against the chain-link behind me, and cross my arms badassedly. “Remember that girl I told you about who got that stuff written on her forehead in Sharpie? Brianna was in there. She was one of the ones who did it.”
“What? No, come on.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“That doesn’t seem like her.”
“Well, okay, she didn’t actually do the writing, but she was in there with those other two when they did it. I would totally turn them in, too, except the girl who got wrote on told me not to. Her name’s Vivi.”
Zach, looking like he’s not sure whether to believe me or not, starts to say something. But then a security guy in a yellow shirt yells at me to keep the aisle clear. “Sit down or move along!”
“I gotta go,” I say. “I didn’t mean to make you mad or anything.”
“No, no, it’s cool,” Zach says. “I’m just surprised is all. Do you mind if I ask her about it?”
“Better not, I think. I mean, I can’t stop you, but it might turn into a big thing.”
“Sure, sure, that’s cool.”
The guard yells at me again. I put my foot down and step away from the fence. “Well, I think you’re cool, so there.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem!” I wave and Zach nods back at me. He’s got a little smile on his face, so that’s good, right?
Happy with how that all went, except for the whole Brianna Montaro part, I cross behind the back end of the field. I look for Danny at the concession stand, but I can’t find him anywhere. So I try looking around the gate where we came in. No Danny. Sad face!
I go back to the concession stand again. Still not anywhere. I need to put a bell on that kid!
I go back to the home-side bleachers. “So, hi again,” I say to Zach.
“Hi again.”
He seems pleased. Awesome!
“Can I sit here with you?”
“Sure.” He scoots to one side and I squish myself next to him.
I spend the whole game with Zach. The team is losing, big time, but I think I kind of win. Well, except for Danny disappearing. Jerk!
So to make myself feel better, I jump right in and ask Zach, “You want to go out sometime?”
“Out, like, a date?” Zach says, like he’s not sure he heard me.
“Sure! Or whatever it’s called. I don’t really know, I’ll be honest. I’ve always gone on these group things with a bunch of people, which is all my dad would let me do, but now I think maybe he’d change his mind, since it’s high school. Oh, sorry if this was a little out of nowhere.”
Zach smiles in a weird way. I can’t figure out what it means. I’m not very good at that. Telling what people are thinking from their expressions.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, kind of slowly, like he’s not sure I can keep up. “But do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Oh! Fourteen. I’m a young’un. My birthday was the day before school started. My parents had to decide whether to make me the little kid or the big kid when I started school, and I ended up being the little kid.”
Zach’s smile changes again. Not in a bad way, I don’t think.
“Gotcha. Uh … so … why don’t we see where the year takes us? Maybe take some time. You know, on campus?”
“Sure! That’s cool. Thanks!”
“No problem.” Then he laughs a little, and I laugh, too, and we watch the game. Score!
Score for me, I mean. Our team doesn’t score much at all.
COACH
Culliver looks good. Too thin, but good. Walker is ready to eat the flesh off the Titans’ bones. The Spartans need the win. He talked to Steve Butler about it earlier in the day, and Steve agrees: they need a win to start the season.
Brady needs it. Coach needs it. The school needs it.
He’s distantly aware that the band is playing “Louie Louie,” and it sends a fresh shot of adrenaline into his bloodstream. They play it the first game of every year. The band director has been here longer than Coach, longer than the last three principals combined. Coach isn’t one to mess with tradition.
The Titans receive.
And the Titans score.
“God damn it,” Coach says.
FINAL SCORE
Titans
28
SPARTANS
06
Humankind
DANNY
“I need a new phone,” I say during breakfast Monday morning.
“I lost mine last week, and I’ve looked everywhere. Or someone took it.”
“Suffer,” Dad says.
So I try Mom.
She says, “I’m sorry, Danny, you just have to keep looking for now, or wait until we can get you new one.”
Magnifico.
So I take something of Pete’s at random and walk to school. Whatever I took, it slows me down. A lot. Which is nice. I traded some of my pills for some of his, and now it’s like a game to see what’ll happen when I take one. Or two. By the time I reach the parking lot, I do not give a good god damn about … let’s see … yep. Anything. It’s sort of freeing. I can’t wait to see where this sort of freedom leads me today.
Maybe I’ll try out for football.
DREA
“Oh thank God,” Kelly says when I climb into her truck Monday morning. “Someone I’m not related to.”
“Rough morning?” I ask.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Kelly scowls as she pulls out of my neighborhood. “I think my mom had my name legally changed to ‘Pick Up The Baby.’”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds serious. Should I just call you PUT-B for short?”
Kelly laughs, which brings a smile to my own face. “You know,” she says, turning left, “for someone in so much pain, you have the strangest ability to make me laugh.”
I barely hear the last half of her sentence. “What?”
She blinks. “What.”
“I’m not in pain.”
Her eyes widen as we roll to a stop at a light. “Um … yes you are.”
“Why? Because I—” I gesture wildly because she knows the rest.
Except Kelly’s not buying it. “Say it. Go ahead. See? You can’t even say it. You cut yourself with razor blades, Drea.”
Not just razor blades, I think, but choose not to say it because it sounds stupid even to me. Kelly accelerates through the green light, a little faster than usual for her.
“Healthy people don’t do that,” Kelly adds, quieter, but like she still wants me to hear it.
I don’t like this. I do not, do not like this. “Maybe I should just walk from here.”
“Oh, grow up,” Kelly mutters. This time I can’t tell if I am meant to hear it or not.
But I did, that’s all that matters. “What the hell? Why are you even talking to me if I’m such a little kid, huh?”
Which sounds very much like a little kid and makes me blush, I can
feel it. I want my paperclip.
I wait for Kelly to pull over and tell me to get out and walk already, which I don’t actually want to do, and not just because school’s still a few miles away. I wait for her to yell at me, but she doesn’t do that either. Instead, she turns on her stereo and searches for a particular song without taking her eyes off the road. When the song starts, it’s slow and melodic, and her voice cuts through my anger. I don’t recognize the song, and I don’t look at her, watching the city go by instead. Everyone’s in a hurry to get to work and school, places they don’t even want to really be.
We come to another light, gliding to a gentle stop in time with the last lingering note of the song.
I don’t realize she’s crying until I hear her sniffle. I turn to face her, stunned. Kelly never struck me as a crier. She’s not wailing or anything, just twin streams of tears rolling down her face, her nose stuffy.
“I thought you were a ghost,” she says.
“Huh?” I say, because, what else is there to say?
“The first day of school in the cafeteria,” Kelly says, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her baseball shirt. “I could see your hair from like miles away. It looked just like my friend Chloe’s. She dyed hers, but still. I just waved before I could even stop to think.”
“You didn’t mean to invite me to sit with you?”
Kelly shakes her head, and makes a sharp right into a Starbucks parking lot. “No, it wasn’t like that, I just mean I had to see you. Talk to you. It was so weird at first.”
I take that in. “So where is Chloe?”
“Portland. She graduated last year. We used to sing together, but then she moved and met this guy and won’t call me back anymore and Mom had the twins and …”
She wipes her nose again.
“Coffee?” she asks.
I nod.
Kelly takes us through the drive-through, which has a long line so we have to sit there forever, not talking, while I try to figure out what this means, if anything.
She orders two tall hot coffees, nothing in them, without asking me. It’s a bit annoying, but under the circumstances, I’m not going to complain, you know?
Back on the road toward school, Kelly finally says, “Nobody sees me. And the ones who do are either asking me to wipe up baby shit, or calling me stuff like Mister Kelly or Kelly the Man or ‘chickdude.’ It’s not a good place to be. You were nice to me. And you trusted me with your—” She mimics my earlier gesture. “You know.”