Sweet Sixteen

by Brenda Rothert

  Roper’s small downtown is nearly full of locally owned businesses. Somehow, they hang in there, though most of the buildings could use some work. People here are loyal and willing to pay more to shop local.

  I scan the windows of the sporting goods store, Peyton’s. It’s a sea of red inside, all jerseys and T-shirts supporting the team. Every pair of shoes I’ve ever owned has come from Peyton’s. Same with my sisters.

  I pass a dog groomer’s shop, a hair salon, and a small diner that’s full every morning. Occasionally, a business will close down, but someone always opens up another one in that spot. Nothing much changes in Roper, and I’ve always liked that.

  Lately, though, I feel restless. I’m torn between wanting to get the hell out of here and away from my dad and needing to stay close to look after my mom and sisters.

  I cross through the intersection leading from downtown to a residential neighborhood. All the houses are simple one- or two-stories with aluminum siding and maybe a one-stall garage. This neighborhood is a lot like mine, full of working-class homes most Roper kids grow up in.

  There are a few exceptions—doctors and lawyers who build fancy houses on the outskirts of town, but for most of us, this is life. Not just life during childhood, but after that too. Kids like my dad make big plans to leave here after high school but then end up staying forever.

  Not me, though. Whether I go to college near here or far away, I’m making it out of Roper. I’m going to give my mom and sisters a better life than they have here, and football is my golden ticket.

  Kids from school wave at me as they drive by in cars their parents bought them. I’ve saved money from working in the football off-season, doing farm labor, construction, or any other odd jobs that require a broad back and strong arms. I’ve thought about buying a car, because it would make my life easier. But I’m afraid to part with the money. If my dad loses his shit some night and really hurts my mom, I know she doesn’t have access to any money. He controls all that. My stash of cash would be enough to get my mom and sisters somewhere safe.

  It takes me about half an hour to get home, and when I walk in, my mom is pouring something into a pan in the kitchen.

  “Hey, whatcha makin’?” I ask.

  “Cornbread, to go with chili for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She smiles. “How was p—”

  “Chase.” My dad walks into the kitchen, stops, and crosses his arms.

  A bitter taste fills my mouth. I can hardly even stand to be in the same room with my old man anymore. But I can’t let him see that, for my mom’s sake.

  “Yeah?”

  “I got a call from the Bama coach today. They need a commitment.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as I try to figure out a response.

  “I know we said either Ohio State or Bama,” he says, “but I’m leaning toward Bama.”

  He said either Ohio State or Bama. I’ve been seriously considering FSU, because Florida is a long-ass drive from Missouri.

  “I’m not ready to commit yet, Dad.”

  “You’ve been saying that for long enough. We’re way past the hand-wringing now. If you don’t commit, someone else will. We can’t lose your spot.”

  “I need more time.”

  “For what?” he yells, his face reddening with anger. “Get your thumb out of your ass, Chase. We need to sign with Bama.”

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head toward my bedroom. “I’ve got lots of homework. Can we talk about this later?”

  “I told the coach you’re ready.”

  I sigh heavily and drop my head. “I’ll be ready soon.”

  “You’ll be ready when he comes here with your letter of intent.”

  I don’t say anything else—it’ll only antagonize him. Instead, I go to my room and sit down on my bed to work on my English paper. Or at least look like I am. My head’s definitely not in it.

  Most guys on my team would kill to have any of the schools after them that have offered me a full ride. They think I haven’t committed because I’m playing hard to get.

  My dad’s right—it’s past time. Coach Carter keeps telling me the same thing. But I’m too torn up over it. No place seems like the right one.

  I take out my phone and text Gin.

  Me: What are you doing?

  Gin: Trying to cut plywood. It’s harder than it looks.

  Me: Huh, am I s’posed to ignore the hard wood jokes right now?

  Gin: That would be good since I just cut my finger and I’m unlikely to laugh.

  Me: You’re not using a power saw or anything, are you? You can really hurt yourself with those.

  Gin: Don’t worry, all my digits are still attached… So what are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?

  Me: It’s over. And I’m trying to make a hard decision.

  Gin: Blond, brunette, or redhead? I vote brunette.

  I smile at the phone screen and almost laugh, which felt impossible five minutes ago.

  Me: Naturally, bc you’re a brunette…

  Gin: No, I’m not. Brunette means brown. My hair is the color of the grim reaper’s robe.

  Me: Is death’s robe bright red?

  Gin: Shut up. You know what I mean.

  Me: Why do you color your hair?

  Gin: Because I like it this color.

  Me: I don’t believe you.

  Gin: I don’t care. Are we done here?

  Me: No. When are we going out for pizza?

  Gin: Can I text you later? I have to finish these cuts. The freshmen are all staring at me with open mouths and paintbrushes in their hand.

  Me: Yeah. Don’t forget.

  Gin: I won’t.

  I toss my phone on the bed and try to focus on my paper. When my mom announces dinner’s ready a few minutes later, I go into the kitchen and pick up my bowl and spoon from the table.

  “Whoa, whoa,” my dad says. “Sit down. We need to talk about Bama.”

  “I’ve got a paper to write, and then I have to watch film for the game. I have a thing after practice tomorrow, so this is the only night I can do it.”

  He lowers his brows, frustrated. I know the asshole well, though, so I know how to buy myself at least a few more days.

  “Can you watch the film with me?” I ask him. “I could use some help analyzing their defense.”

  His brows shoot upward in surprise. “Sure. Just come find me when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks.”

  I glance at my mom, who gives me a grateful look. I just saved her entire evening. Asking my dad for advice, which I rarely do, will mean he’s in a good mood for a while.

  It’s fucking ridiculous that the only person in this house we have to tread carefully around is one of the adults. My sisters both have their heads down. They’re focused on eating and getting the hell out of there, like I usually am.

  I eat alone in my room, finish my paper, and then watch some film with my dad. He has a notebook and pen ready, and he takes notes as we watch and rewind the film.

  If he weren’t such a dick, I’d appreciate his enthusiasm. But I know none of this is about me. Not the film, not the college choice, not any of it. It’s about him making me into the person he planned to be.

  I’m in bed scrolling through social media when Gin finally texts at almost 10:00 p.m.

  Gin: So did the brunette win out?

  Me: It’s a different decision, smartass.

  Gin: Hmmm…what other decisions do football players make?

  Me: You’d be surprised.

  Gin: Anything I can help with?

  Me: I don’t know…

  Gin: If it’s pie or cake—pie. Bath or shower—bath. Bacon or any other food in the universe—bacon. Does that help?

  Me: Helps me know I should ask you out for breakfast instead of pizza.

  Gin: Ha.

  Me: I’m trying to decide what school to go to.

  Gin: I thought you had a full ride s
omewhere?

  Me: I do, but there’s more than one school to choose from.

  Gin: I see.

  Me: I know it’s a “problem” most people would love to have…

  Gin: No, it’s a big decision. I get it.

  Me: Do you know where you’re going?

  Gin: NYU.

  Me: Wow, New York?

  Gin: Yep.

  Me: You didn’t think about anywhere else?

  Gin: No. I’ve always known it was NYU.

  Me: I wish I knew where I’m supposed to go.

  Gin: What schools are you thinking about?

  Me: I like University of Iowa and Penn State. My dad likes Alabama and Ohio State.

  Gin: You’re the one who has to go there. You make the decision.

  Me: I wish it were that simple.

  Gin: It is.

  Me: Did you get your wood cut?

  Gin: I did. It only took about seven times longer than it takes the guy who usually cuts it for me.

  Me: Hey, at least you did it.

  Gin: I’m falling asleep…

  Me: Go to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Gin: Okay. Bye.

  I grin at her awkward signoff.

  Me: Night, Gin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gin

  Clay Houser has a shit-eating grin as he walks up to our lunch table. He’s got a towel thrown over one shoulder that looks like it came from one of the locker rooms.

  My stomach churns at the thought of him tossing it at my face when it has God knows what all over it. It’s been a quiet Thursday so far, with most people just ignoring me or giving me dirty looks.

  “Asshole alert,” Lauren says when Clay stops at our table.

  Clay sneers at her. “What’s it like for a dyke to suck dick for drugs? Bet you gag on ’em.”

  She laughs bitterly. “Curious about sucking dick, Clay? There are some videos online you can watch to learn.”

  Raj tries to muffle his laugh. Clay’s cheeks darken with embarrassment.

  “You bunch of freaks deserve each other,” he mutters.

  I put an arm out to shield my face as he starts to throw the towel, but it surprises all of us when he tosses it at Raj instead of me.

  “Wrap it around your head, Osama,” he sneers.

  Several football players behind him are laughing it up. Raj is trying to ignore the whole thing, but the look on his face is gutting me.

  Shame. Clay Houser made Raj feel ashamed of who he is, and it sparks my temper into an instant inferno. Raj doesn’t say a mean word to anyone. His parents are dead, and the only reminder he gets of them at Roper High School is the taunting of rednecks.

  I reach for the towel and get up from the table, advancing on Clay. I’m not even thinking; I’m just letting my white-hot rage guide my every move.

  “Clay, I hope this towel is dirty.”

  There are only a few steps between me and him now, and he’s giving me a bewildered look as I get closer. His cheering section has gone quiet.

  “What are you doing?” he scoffs and looks from side to side.

  My voice is ominously even. “I’m gonna shove this towel so far down your throat that you choke on it. I hope you taste ass and crotch as it goes down.”

  I throw myself at him then, rubbing the towel in his face. He seems too stunned to move for a few seconds, but then he grabs my shoulders and throws me off.

  “Crazy bitch,” he says under his breath.

  I’m hurling myself at him for a second round when someone hooks an arm around my waist.

  “Stop, Gin.”

  I turn to see the assistant principal, Mrs. Metz. I take a few deep breaths, and it sets in what I’ve done.

  Shit. I’m probably getting a detention. It was worth it, though. After nearly a week of merciless tormenting over that stupid rose, I boiled over. Clay’s treatment of Raj was just the last straw.

  “To your office?” I ask Mrs. Metz.

  She drops her hold on me. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  I sulk the entire way to her office, sitting down and staying silent once we’re inside.

  “Gin, what’s going on with you?” she asks, closing her office door.

  Mrs. Metz seems okay. She’s a Native American woman who married a Roper guy and now finds herself working at a Podunk school in the middle of nowhere. Still, I’m not apologizing for what I did to Clay. He deserved it—and much more.

  I shrug. “Just the usual. Football players thinking they own the world around here.”

  She furrows her brow and sits down behind her desk. “How so?”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “I just saw you lunging at Clay, and that’s so unlike you. There must have been a reason.”

  “Yeah, he threw a towel at Raj and said something about him putting it on his head.”

  Mrs. Metz’s expression darkens.

  “Roper’s finest,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Gin, I agree with you that Clay’s behavior was unacceptable, and I will address it. But you know your response wasn’t okay either.”

  “I’m tired of it.” I hold her gaze across her desk. “Football players get anything they want. They make derogatory, sexist, racist comments and everyone chalks it up to ‘our boys blowing off steam.’” I emphasize my words with air quotes.

  “When those comments happen, you need to report them.”

  I shake my head. “That’s a lot of reporting. And then what? They’ll get in trouble? No. They’ll get a slap on the wrist from you and a pat on the ass from their piece-of-shit coach.”

  “Gin.”

  I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. “I know you have to talk the talk, Mrs. Metz. Tell me what I did was wrong. But you know I’m right. And I’m not sorry for what I did. Clay’s a disgusting pig. Raj is my friend. He doesn’t stand up for himself, but I won’t just sit there while he gets treated that way. I wouldn’t let anyone be treated that way.”

  Mrs. Metz nods curtly. “Just head for your next class, okay? I’ll handle Clay.”

  “Do I have detention? Are you calling my mom?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I don’t mind if you call my mom. Just know that she may break into applause,” I say. “She might order me a cake for tonight that says, ‘Way to go, Gin.’”

  Mrs. Metz is trying not to smile. “Go to class. If anyone asks, I talked the talk, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I stand up and sling my backpack over my shoulder. “And I listened.”

  Once again, everyone’s talking about me. All afternoon, people whisper and stare when I walk into a room or when I’m in the hallways. Apparently, they’re saying I tried to start a fight with Clay, and he refused to fight me.

  He’s a real gentleman, that Clay.

  I make it to the end of the school day, feeling lighter as I walk backstage in the theater. I’m working on creating abstract castle spires with my crew, and it’s not easy. We had to throw out our first attempt, which looked like tie-dyed lollipops.

  My crew of three freshmen boys and one sophomore girl are all staring at me in wide-eyed silence.

  “You guys, it was no big deal,” I tell them. “I didn’t fight anyone. Let’s get to work on Castle Spires 2.0, okay?”

  I lean the pieces of plywood I cut yesterday up against some five-gallon paint buckets, then pass out brushes and get them going on painting the spires dark gray, which will be their base color. I’m on my knees, stirring paints to be used as accent shades when a deep voice sounds behind me.

  “Reporting for duty, boss.”

  I stop stirring, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. It’s Chase, but what is he doing here? I turn and give him a confused look.

  “Why aren’t you at practice?”

  “I’m on my way there. But when I’m done, I’m volunteering here.”

  “Here as in…?”

  He grins and points at the spires. “I’ll be helping you with…whatever that is.”r />
  I lower my brows in frustration. “They’re castle spires.”

  “Yeah, I figured.” His cocky grin widens, and he winks at me.

  My face warms against my will. I clear my throat and return to stirring, forcing myself to look impassive.

  “Okay, well…wear old clothes you don’t mind getting paint on.”

  He nods and walks closer to me. “Okay. I’ll be here by five.”

  I look up at him. “We’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

  Another grin from him and another somersault in my stomach. I want to focus on the paint I’m stirring, but he’s holding my gaze, and I can’t make myself stop staring into his faded denim-blue eyes.

  “See you soon, Gin.”

  He hooks the second strap of his backpack over his arm and shrugs it all the way on, then walks away. I still can’t stop staring. I watch as he jogs down the stairs on the side of the stage.

  Madison stops in the middle of the scene she’s rehearsing to say something to him. I don’t hear what it is because I’m entirely focused on Chase, but he smiles and nods at her before heading out an auditorium door.

  One of the freshmen clears his throat. My attention snaps toward him, and he snickers.

  “You need something?” I ask, my tone agitated.

  He shakes his head. “You just looked distracted.”

  “Just paint, would you? We’re behind schedule since we had to trash the first set of spires.”

  “What are we doing with these? They aren’t abstract. Aren’t they supposed to be abstract?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “We’re getting there, Skippy. First, they need a base coat of gray.”

  Returning to the paint I’m stirring, I take a deep breath and try to think about anything but Chase. He had to have heard that I jumped one of his teammates at lunch today and tried to stuff a towel in his mouth. But still, he showed up here with that flirty grin.

  And why is he volunteering here? I’ve never seen Chase volunteer for any team or activity. The drama club often gets stuck with Jack Pearson, the loudest a-hole imaginable.

  It has to be about me. I know that, and it makes my heart pound and my blood race with nervous energy. Chase is still trying to persuade me to give it up to the Roper High football team, and even though there’s a zero percent chance that will happen, I don’t mind his attention.