Sweet Sixteen

by Brenda Rothert

  I pretend I mind, but deep down, I like that he texts me. My senior year is nothing like I expected it would be, but that’s been the one bright spot. Chase Matthews finally actually sees me. And when he looks at me, emotions flicker in his eyes. Sure, they range from pissed off to confounded to amused, but the point is—they’re feelings. I never thought we’d even have a conversation, and now we’ve had several.

  From now on, though, I have to watch myself. No one can know I secretly like him. God, that would be humiliating. I just got busted by a freshman getting googly-eyed, and that’s very un-Gin-ish.

  I’m cool AF. Calm AF. Collected AF.

  I finish stirring the red paint and move on to shaking the can of purple.

  He’s probably volunteering here so he can make a last-ditch effort to convince me to be his tribute tomorrow night. His plan was likely to get friendly with me during the week so I let down my guard and then make me feel like it would mean something to him if we had sex.

  It’s not happening. He’ll have to give another girl a rose in the morning, and he’ll be screwing her tomorrow night.

  The thought turns the churning warmth in my belly into a pile of smoldering ash.

  As promised, Chase shows up backstage just before 5:00 p.m. His hair is damp like he just took a shower. When he’s a few feet away, I get a hint of a soapy smell that confirms he did.

  Be cool, Gin.

  “Hey,” he says in greeting.

  “Hi.” I point to the brushes and paint I set out for him. “You can start with those. We need all those boards painted green. They’re going to be grass for our outdoor set.”

  He nods and arches a brow playfully. “You don’t trust me with anything harder than grass?”

  “Let’s see how you do with that first.” I give him a half smile.

  After walking to the other side of the set building area, he looks back at me. I put him on the opposite end of me deliberately, so the freshmen are between us. I don’t need anyone else noticing how hard it is for me not to pay attention to anything but Chase when he’s around.

  I’m working with Lane, one of the freshmen boys, on our abstract castle spires. No matter what we do, they won’t be Broadway quality, because they’re made of freaking plywood, but we’re doing our best. We’re trying to make them look like they’re from Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

  “Like this?” Lane asks me, swirling his brush through the wet paint.

  “Yeah, that’s good.”

  As always, I’m listening to the rehearsal with one ear. It’s hard not to follow along and learn all the lines when you hear them repeated so many times.

  “Sometimes it’s overwhelming being a prince,” Aiden, who plays Prince Charming, says. “I wish I could just say what I’m really thinking sometimes, you know?”

  There’s a long pause before Madison says, “You…uh, I mean…you can?”

  I turn my head to the side and feed her the next line in a loud whisper. “Can’t you? You’re the only one here who definitely won’t get beheaded for having an opinion.”

  She repeats the line, and Aiden moves on with his part of the scene. I think Madison learned the first act of the play, but she struggles with the second and third acts. And her understudy, Grace, doesn’t seem to know any of it. She should be the one helping Madison remember lines, not me.

  Hopefully by our opening night in a month, Madison will know the script by heart. Otherwise, it’ll be pretty painful to watch.

  Lane and I finish our spires, and they look much better than our first attempt did. It’s approaching 6:00 p.m., and everyone’s packing up to leave.

  “Need help cleaning up?” Chase asks me.

  I glance up at him. “I’ll get it when I’m done, thanks. Great job on the grass.”

  He shrugs. “It was kind of hard to mess up.” He runs a hand through his hair, now dry and back to its usual dark gold shade. “You’re not leaving?”

  “I have a few things to finish up. I have to teach lessons at the Y at seven, and there’s not really enough time for me to go home in between.”

  Our eyes lock, a silent spark of electricity passing between us. Is he thinking about seeing me at the Y the other night, or is that just me?

  “I’ll stay and help,” he offers.

  “No, you don’t have to. I don’t mind.”

  “I know, I just—”

  “I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt.

  Lane widens his eyes and walks away. Chase gives me a sheepish grin.

  “I don’t expect you to, Gin. I’m just offering my help with the painting.”

  My cheeks warm with embarrassment. Where did that outburst come from?

  “I know, but if you’re trying to make nice so you can bring me a rose again tomorrow…please don’t. Please. It’ll be another no. It’ll always be a no.”

  Chase’s expression sobers. “I know. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then…why are you here?”

  “Yeah, why are you here?” Madison barges in between us, addressing Chase. “And what are you doing after? Want to get something to eat?”

  “No, I’m not leaving yet.”

  Madison looks at Chase, who is looking at me. She turns to me, then back to him, with a confused look.

  “Ooookay,” she says, shrugging.

  She leaves, and slowly, everyone else trickles out of the theater too. Soon it’s just Chase and me.

  The bright stage lights illuminate the empty stage, so I switch them off.

  “If you want to help, we can paint this last spire,” I say, passing him the brush Lane was using.

  He bends to dip his brush in the paint, turning to me. “I’m sorry about what happened with Clay at lunch today.”

  “It’s nothing new. Why be sorry now?”

  “I’ve never condoned that kind of shit.”

  I press my lips together, willing myself not to speak, but I can’t help it. I’m made to fire back.

  “So gangbanging is okay, but racist jokes aren’t. Got it.”

  Chase sighs softly. “Come on, Gin. I thought we kind of had a truce happening.”

  “Is it over?” I set my brush down on the tarp and stand up, crossing my arms and looking down at him. “This whole me being one of the Sweet Sixteen thing, I mean. Are you guys going to ask me again or…I don’t know, jump me behind the school one day?”

  He stands up, contrition on his face. “No. I’d never let that happen. I’m not as bad a guy as you seem to think.”

  The aggravation in his tone makes me roll my eyes.

  “Really? Because I think you lead a group of guys who gangbang a new girl every Friday night of the football season.”

  Our eyes stay locked as several seconds of silence pass.

  “Clay is benched for tomorrow night’s entire game,” he finally says.

  “Whose decision was that? Your coach usually doesn’t give a rat’s ass how you guys treat others.”

  Chase looks at the ceiling, locks his hands behind his head and laughs.

  “Gin Fielding, you’re not like any other girl I’ve ever met. You drive me crazy half the time and ride my ass the rest of the time. And you say things like rat’s ass.”

  My heart pounds as I make myself look dismissive. “I didn’t ask you to come here. And I don’t want to be like other girls.”

  Chase puts his hands on his hips, his eyes on me. “I came here because I wanted to. I like that you aren’t like other girls. And it was me who made the decision for Clay to get benched.”

  I’m taken aback. “You?”

  “Coach would rather have me on the field than Clay.”

  “He had to choose?”

  Chase shrugs and looks out over the empty theater chairs. “I told him if it came to it, he’d have to.”

  “Well, that’s…” I swallow, searching for words. “Thanks, I think. Clay’s really gonna have it out for me now, though.”

  “No, he won’t. I took care of it. He won’t bother yo
u again. Or Lauren and Raj.”

  I exhale deeply. “Okay. Thanks. Though I wouldn’t have this problem if you hadn’t tried to give me that damn rose last Friday. What were you thinking, giving it to me?”

  A slight smile plays on his lips. “If I could do it over again, I wouldn’t. And like I said, I’m sorry. Can we move on? Maybe…be friends?”

  “I guess so. But my first order of business as your friend is to tell you that you seriously need to rethink this whole Sweet Sixteen thing.”

  “It wasn’t my idea, Gin. This has been going on for years. Since the 90s, I think.”

  “So what?”

  He bends back down and picks up his paintbrush. “Are we gonna work on this spire?”

  I glance over at the digital clock backstage. “We should clean up, actually. I need to get to the Y so I can get changed.”

  We clean the brushes and seal up the paint cans. When we’re about to head out, I give Chase a heads-up about the streak of green paint on his cheek.

  Oh, to be one of those girls who reaches over to wipe it off for him. I’m so not, though.

  “Do you, uh…want a ride?” I ask Chase as we walk out the side door.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He barely fits in my passenger seat with his large frame. I don’t bother asking where he lives, because in Roper, everyone knows where everyone lives.

  When I pull into the driveway of his house, he reaches for the door handle and then looks over at me.

  “Text me when you get home later. Since we’re friends now.”

  With that, he winks at me and gets out of my car.

  I should really roll my eyes and make a comment under my breath. But I can’t.

  My principles tell me to despise Chase Matthews, but my crush on him won’t allow it. So for now, I’ll have to stay in this weird in-between place.

  Because while I secretly like him—a lot—I know what tomorrow morning is. It’s rose day.

  No matter how Chase makes me feel, he’s part of something I find sickening. Even my crush isn’t strong enough to overcome how I feel about that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chase

  My thirty-yard throw to Jack is perfect. He catches it and covers the short distance to the end zone, adding another cherry on top of our 39-12 victory.

  The crowd is cheering and the guys are celebrating, but I feel like I’m not completely here right now. I played tonight’s game on autopilot, making the throws and running the plays that have become second nature to me.

  My head’s been elsewhere all day. When I gave Sophie Chambers a rose this morning, I smiled and she smiled as what felt like the whole school looked on. They seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief that things are back to normal now.

  They all knew we’d win tonight. They all knew Sophie was the one we’d decided as a team was hot enough to celebrate with us tonight. And while that all felt slightly wrong this morning, I chalked it up to my mojo being off from Gin saying no last week. To maybe being a little bit over high school football in general. Ready to move on to a bigger game, where I have to bust my ass just to hold my spot on the team.

  But then I saw Michelle Zimmerman. She’s a senior, like me, and today was her first day back at school after a thirty-day stay at rehab. Everyone knew her drinking had gotten worse the past several months, and that she was dabbling in some pretty hard drugs.

  None of us had guessed she’d try to kill herself, though. Her mom had found her in bed with an empty pill bottle on the floor, and she’d had to get drugs pumped out of her stomach and then she’d been admitted to rehab.

  And now, she’s back, but one look at her told me she’s not the same girl we all knew before. She’s thinner, to the point of looking frail. Her long blond hair is cut to shoulder length now and pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. And even though it’s still warm enough for shorts and T-shirts this mid-September, she’s wearing pants and a baggy shirt with long sleeves.

  I never knew Michelle well. It set in when I was thinking that, how weird it is to say that about someone I’ve had sex with, but it’s true. She was one of the Sweet Sixteen last year.

  She enjoyed it. They all do. But when I saw her this morning—when she saw me looking at her from across the hall and her eyes locked on mine, I almost stumbled back from the wave of emotion I felt coming off of her.

  Was she just calling me out for looking at her, like everyone else is today? Or was she trying to tell me something? It wasn’t a kind look. It was more like she was telling me she’s stripped bare now, all the way down to the bone. More naked than she was that drunken night last year. And that I’m more a part of what’s happened to her since than I want to admit.

  “Hey, you need a ride to the cabin?” Jack asks me as we walk to the locker room after the game.

  “Nah. I actually think I pulled my groin.”

  “Shit, how?”

  I shrug. “No idea.”

  “You’re not pussing out on the party. Put some ice on your crotch and drink a few beers, you’ll be good.”

  I nod, just to get him off my back. My groin is fine, but I thought up the lie earlier so I won’t have to explain why I’m not fucking Sophie.

  I wasn’t feeling it anyway, but after the way Michelle looked at me earlier, it’s not an option. I can’t even think straight—much less think about sex—until I figure things out.

  What I really want is to talk things over with Gin. Her unfiltered honesty is what I need, and I trust her. That’ll have to wait, though. There are a couple other things I have to do first, or I won’t be able to sleep tonight.

  After a quick shower, I dress and head for the concession stand. My dad’s there in his usual spot, breaking down the game with friends at a picnic table. His eyes light up when he sees me.

  “Good game, son.” He stands and claps me on the shoulder.

  I smile and thank him, though the words taste bitter. He never calls me “son” unless we’re around other people.

  “Hey, can I borrow your truck?” I ask him.

  He fishes for the keys in the pocket of his jeans and passes them to me. “You got it. Have a good time.”

  I could’ve asked him if I could commit murder, and he would have smiled and said yes. As long as we get the win, nothing else matters.

  Nothing. And that’s why my stomach’s been churning all damn day.

  I thank my dad, and he tells me where to find the truck. I get stopped several times on the way to the parking lot by people who want to congratulate me or ask me about the game. One of those times, it’s my sister Cassie who stops me.

  “Hey, Dad said you’re taking his truck. Are you going to the party? Can I come with you?”

  “No.” I say it more forcefully than I meant to.

  Cassie crosses her arms and cocks her head. “Why not? I’m old enough.”

  “No, you’re not. Go home, Cass. Or go get pizza with your friends. You’re not going to the party.”

  “Come on, Chase. Please?”

  “Look, that’s not even where I’m going. I’ll give you a ride somewhere else if you want.”

  She considers. “Okay, let me tell my friends.”

  I assume she means tell them she’s leaving with me, but instead, I find myself in the truck with Cassie and three of her giggling sophomore friends. One of them rolls down the passenger side window on the way out of the parking lot, and they all wave and call out to people.

  I wish I felt a shred of their energy. Instead, I feel beat down. It’s partly physical from the game, but mostly mental.

  The whole way to the girl’s house I’m taking them to, I grip the steering wheel hard, questions racing through my mind. After dropping them off, I make the ten-minute drive to Michelle’s, parking on the street in front of her family’s two-story brick home on a tree-lined street.

  It’s a quiet neighborhood with nice sidewalks—a notch above the average Roper one. I’m halfway up the sidewalk leading to the front
door when I stop.

  I shouldn’t have come here. It was her first day back at school, and she’s been through a lot. I’m not even a friend of hers.

  But something makes me keep walking. I need an answer to the question that’s been bothering me since seeing her in the hallway this morning.

  The lights are still on in the living room, so I knock softly at the front door. After a minute or so, a man with graying hair opens the door, giving me a puzzled look.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “I’m sorry for coming by so late, sir. I was wondering if Michelle is here.”

  He furrows his brow and then shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry, she’s—”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” Michelle approaches from behind him.

  He looks at her skeptically, concern etched on his face.

  “It’s okay,” she says again.

  He steps aside, and Michelle looks at me.

  “What are you doing here, Chase?”

  I sigh softly. What am I doing here? I’m supposed to be on the way to the party, to drink away my troubles.

  “Can we talk for a minute?” I ask.

  Her dad opens his mouth to protest, so I add, “Just sitting on the front step, maybe?”

  “Yeah.” Michelle gives her dad a weak smile of reassurance and then steps outside, closing the door behind her.

  She sits down first, and when I join her, I make sure to leave a foot of space between us. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. That’s an odd thought to have, though, given our history.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” I say. “How was the first day?”

  She shrugs. “About as expected. Lots of staring and whispering. People trying to get a look at my wrists to see if there are slash marks, even though I used pills.”

  A few moments of awkward silence hang in the cool night air.

  “What are you doing here?” Michelle asks again. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the party?”

  “I need to ask you something. I don’t know if I’m a dick for coming over here on your first day back and bringing up something that might make you feel bad, but—”