by S. E. Hall
“No.” She runs a hand through her hair, her voice almost sad, but still holding a bit of relief. I’m sure she’s still confused exactly how she feels about Kaitlyn and her deviousness. “She doesn’t care about me, it was always about you. I’m sure you’ll hear from her long before I ever do.”
“I won’t ever talk to her again.”
“I know.” She turns her sullen eyes from their gaze out the window back to me and smiles. “You’re pretty great like that.”
She’s pretty great too. Despite it all, she’s my favorite person. I doubt I’ll be able to deny it much longer, but I don’t air it right now, just let another curtain of quietness fall over us.
“I don’t have a stalker,” she blurts out.
I think she was going for nonchalance, but the shrill pitch in her voice and bend in her brows give her away. As if this wouldn’t be big news to me, or her…it is. Very big news.
“What?” I ask, completely surprised. I had lots of theories about her stalker and it was on my list of questions to ask her when we were back on speaking terms, but her mom wasn’t a suspect on my radar.
“It was my mom. Da— Um, I know where she is and it was her with all the notes and stuff.”
Something inside me shifts right then, a flash in my mind of the part Laney and I always knew for sure; the friendship. This is a huge deal, one that I will support her through, no questions asked. I can’t help but soften. I don’t know how long she’s known, but I do know the minute she found out, she needed and wanted to talk to me and I wasn’t there.
But I am now, and when we’re back in the parking lot of her dorm, that’s what we do. We both turn in, facing each other, her with one leg bent on the seat and me with one elbow propped up against the back, and we dissect all that is my best friend’s life-changing development.
WONDERMENT
“So you’re gonna tag team with me for Valentine’s Day, right?”
When Sawyer says “tag team,” you ask for clarification. We could be talking about anything at this point.
“What do you mean?” I ask with baited breath. Please don’t let him have entered us in coed mud wrestling or some other “great” idea.
“Well, you don’t have a girlfriend, and because Jesus loves me, neither do I, so I figure we’ll hit The K together. Pick up a few honeys for the night, whatever.”
“Sawyer,” I laugh, “are you asking me to be by your side on Valentine’s Day?”
“Fuck you.” He slugs me in the shoulder, which I’ll feel tomorrow since he’s the size of a Gladiator. “This ain’t no bromance. We walk in together, but we’re leaving with women. Valentine’s Day, dude, every chick in there will reek of menthols and desperation, all alone on the big day.”
Well when he makes it sound so appealing…
“I can’t,” I say, stifling a chuckle, “I promised Whitley I’d go watch her group sing. A frat hired them to sing at their V-Day party. It’s a paying gig, so she’s really excited.”
“You’re gonna leave me hangin’ for Whitley?”
“Don’t say it like that, man. Whitley’s actually a very cool girl, and I like her. She’s never done a damn thing to any of you. So what if she was a little clingy with Dane? She was trying to be a good friend. You need to lay off.”
He’s staring at me with a weird look on his face. I’m really hoping it’s not the look he gets right before he kicks someone’s ass for talking to him like that. I’m no slouch, but I’m also no Sawyer. I don’t know how many times my dad has told me, “you go looking for a fight knowing you’re gonna lose, your dumbass deserves to get kicked.” I’m not looking to even have cross words with Sawyer. He’s a cool guy, but the Whitley shit is false, undeserved and enough.
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm, what?”
“Nothing,” he says with a shrug.
“Surely there’ll be single girls at the party she’s singing at, right?
So why don’t you come with me?”
He considers it for a minute then smiles. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Well, there ya go, problem solved. And will you please try not to be so mean to her?”
“I can do that too. Now that you mention it, Dane never really said anything bad about her. I guess it was mostly her getting on my nerves for him. I’ll let up, I swear.”
“Thanks.”
“So what’s going on with you two anyway?”
“Not what you’re thinking,” I laugh. “But she’s cool. I like my time with her.”
This year Valentine’s falls on a weekend and the party is packed. I’m glad for the turnout; I know it will make Whitley’s day. She’s talked about nothing but tonight’s performance for days and I’m actually kinda nervous for her. I still haven’t heard her sing, but surely she’s good if she’s the captain, right?
“Sawyer!” An inebriated Kirby falls onto him.
“Hey, Kirb,” he responds stiffly, giving me an exasperated look.
I have to look away to hide my grin at his fate. I’ve heard all about Sawyer’s former interest in Kirby and her twin, Avery, and how it haunts him even now, obviously, as one of them is draped over him like a cheap shirt. Apparently Avery and Zach paired off, leaving “poor Sawyer” with one very clingy Kirby. And Sawyer does NOT do clingy. I’m pretty sure it’s in the Welcome to Southern handbook, so how Kirby missed that lil’ tidbit is beyond me.
“Are Zach and Avery here?” he asks, gently removing her hands from his chest, desperately looking around the room for someone to pawn her off on.
“Nooo,” she slurs, “they’re on a romantic date. Just like Tate and Bennett and Dane and Laney. Lucky bitches,” she pouts.
And I’ve officially heard enough.
“I’m gonna go find Whitley and wish her luck!” I yell to Sawyer as I make my getaway, leaving him stranded and not giving him a chance to try and stop me.
I spot her in the main room, pointing and bossing all the other girls around. I slip up behind her and speak softly in her ear. “Nervous?”
“You came!” She turns around and gives me a vibrant smile.
“Of course I did.” I tap the end of her nose. “I told you I would. Now where should I stand for the best view? Is this a dance around or stand in one spot thing?”
“Go stand right over there.” She points to a spot in the front. “We’re about to start.”
They’re really good, incredible even, and the sparkle in Whitley’s eyes is mesmerizing. Her voice is smooth and sensual, much deeper when she sings than when she talks. And the things they do with these songs? It’s the coolest thing. They’re singing a bunch of love songs, of course, but the way they change up the rhythms and stuff makes it enjoyable even for a guy.
The crowd loves them, and I’m pretty sure I saw a couple of girls in the masses crying when they sang “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” It was moving. Whitley really commands a room when she sings, and if she had the same confidence in everyday life, she’d be unstoppable.
For the boys, they perform “Red Light Special.” My eyes bug out and Whitley smirks, winking at my shocked expression. DAMNNNNN. These Larks got a lil’ sexy in em’. One Lark in particular is a whole head of seduction above the rest. At least in my book.
Interesting indeed.
Sawyer comes up behind me and slaps me on the shoulder. “Well I’ll be dipped,” he booms. “Whitley’s got a fucking hot side.”
Did I just growl? Nah, surely not.
Speak of the temptress, Whitley steps up front and center now to close the show. “Thank you all so much. We’re your Southern Lovely Larks and we’d love your support at our performances this year.” She pauses for the clapping and whistling from the boisterous onlookers, me joining right in with them. “This will be our last song of the night. I chose it because,” she ducks her head shyly, looking up and at me through her lashes, “well, because I finally figured out what to sing.”
It’s only her voice, soft and slow, singing “Wond
erwall,” the old Oasis song. My eyes never leave hers, we’re locked on one another’s gaze every last note. And as sappy chick shit as this may sound, I feel a little crack in my heart seal back together. There’s nothing else in this divot of time, no one else in the room but Whitley and I, her message ringing loud and true, straight to me.
When the last note eases from her mouth, the crowd explodes around us. It was a moving performance, words unable to describe what it meant to know that it was for me. I step to the stage and offer her my hand, which she takes with a timid smile. Her small hand in mine, I help her down and wrap her in a hug.
“You’re really good Whitley, that was amazing,” I exhale in her ear.
“I’m glad you liked it. I sang it for you.”
“It was perfect.” My cheek rubs against hers as I nod my head; I knew who she was singing to.
Who knows, maybe she’s gonna be the one who saves me.
FLAG ON THE PLAY
It’s been a long few weeks.
I took Dane to his cabin for his birthday weekend (with Valentine’s Day mixed in) and it was heavenly. I’d ended up getting him a book of vouchers that I made myself, being broke and all, but he seemed to love it. So far he’s cashed in the ones for “pick the movie tonight” and “sit back and watch my striptease.”
On my wrist is my Valentine’s present, a beautiful silver cuff bracelet inscribed with “Love: friendship set to music.”
That man.
It was his birthday, but I’d been pampered and tempted to the point of never coming back. Dane always makes me feel special, loved, but oh the other things he gives me. One whole day, he forbade me from wearing any clothes, hid them from me in fact, and we fell asleep that night in front of the fireplace, sticky with sweat.
I kinda have trouble even walking when I think back on it.
We’re closing in quick on the start of softball season and the team looks great! That also means, however, that my 11 pm curfew is in effect most nights, much to Dane Kendrick’s dismay. Coach is pretty lenient though, so Dane will live.
The best news? Evan and I talk every Thursday in Algebra class, not exactly like the old days, but much better than not so long ago. He’s made fast friends with Sawyer, and even Zach now, and I couldn’t be happier about that. One great guy deserves another two!
Tate is all healed up and back at the dorm, which means my breath of sunshine roommate is back. I don’t think I realized just how much I’d missed Bennett until she came back.
All in all, the spring is shaping up nicely! Things are finally starting to feel normal again.
The only untouched left is my mom. I wrote her a long letter, but it has yet to even be stamped. Or sealed, for that matter. I don’t know the rules. Can she even receive letters? Not that it matters, since I’m nowhere near ready to mail it, but writing it was therapeutic, and dammit, I’m proud just for that! My dad says I should send it, as does Dane, but it’s not up to them.
So, it’s with a pretty happy heart that I grab my gear and head out to the flag football game. We’ve been practicing our butts off and Zach, it turns out, is quite the drill sergeant, but I’m pretty confident me and my girls are about to bring home the banner!
Dane’s waiting in his car when I head out the door but quickly scrambles out to grab all the stuff in my hands and load it up for me, treating me to a soft kiss first. “Hey, baby, you ready to score?”
It’s like the tenth time he’s used that line, he thinks it’s so cute. It kinda is.
Rolling my eyes at him, I get in the car, immediately turning on my “pump me up” music, “Let Me Clear My Throat” by DJ Kool. I mean really, is there any other choice? He’s chuckling as he takes the driver’s seat and acts like he’s gonna turn the music off, barely getting his hand pulled back when I move to slap it. The sun roof is open, as the air is, as usual, unseasonably warm, and I feel good.
The rules of the flag football tournament are simple: you win, you keep playing. No round robin, no break, no pool play—your win, your field, until someone knocks you off of it. This could be grueling for lesser women, but three wins in and the Lady Eagles softball team isn’t tired. If anything, we’re hungrier with each win; pumped, primed and ready for the next battle!
Game four is against none other than the Lovely Larks. I see Whitley prancing to the middle of the field for the coin toss, so I matter-of-factly tell my team I’ll Captain this game and make my way there.
I don’t even try to hide my bitchy smirk as I stare her down.
“Winners’ call,” the ref, an upperclassman named Xander, and I only know that because he’s felt the need to tell me four times throughout the day, says as he sends the quarter in the air.
“Tails,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers. “Tails,” Xander confirms.
Statistics say you should always pick heads and my dad has given me that sermon more times than I care to count, but I always go with tails. I knew that’s how it’d land just as sure as I know I’m about to school Whitley’s ass. I have no idea where her and Evan stand. We don’t broach the subject in our blossoming Algebra conversations, but I know what hasn’t changed—I still hate her.
I realize that taking over my father’s business ventures at a young age had put me out of touch with playing any team sports since high school, but I’m almost positive the word “flag” in the title of “flag football” carries some literal meaning.
Which is why I’m puzzled watching my girlfriend tackle Whitley for the third time. The first time she did it, Sawyer, sitting beside me, laughed his ass off, muttering something about a “spitfire.” So I thought, no big deal, it did kinda look like she just lost her grip on the flags and fell, taking Whitley down with her.
The second time, even Sawyer toned down his snickering and agreed with me it looked a bit suspect, especially when the official blew a whistle in Laney’s ear and moved the Larks up several yards. Zach had benched her after that one, but with a lot of her pacing and arm-flailing in his face, which was quite a show for us spectators, he put Laney back in.
But now, a third time? Laney is still laying on top of Whitley, showing no signs of getting up, until the ref runs across the field and throws the flag (not that Laney acknowledges flags), giving Whitley a moment of reprieve to once again brush herself off and adjust her clothing and hair. Evan and Zach both call time loudly and quickly march simultaneously onto the field, toward my girl.
“Go get her,” Sawyer groans as he bumps me with his shoulder. “I’ll bring the car around.”
So, ever the level-headed one in our relationship, I jog down the bleacher stairs in my quest to contain one very fired up Laney Jo Walker. If she wasn’t so damn adorable, with her cute little football pants and black streaks under her eyes, I’d be upset right now, because I know why she’s attacking Whitley. She feels powerless over the situation with Evan, so she’s going for the easy, direct hit on the girl who’s been sniffing him.
Laney’s been great about things lately, slowly having friendly words with Evan in their class together, and I can see her mood lightening each week. It’s giving her some sanity, some resolve and closure, so she’s my happy, witty sparring partner again, not talking about the woe is me that is Laney and Evan all the time. Because of all this, I’m gonna take it easy on her. I’m not gonna berate her for her real intentions and what that means. But I am gonna drag her off this field and take her home where she can really take her frustrations out…on me. Yes, please.
Keep a straight face. Keep a straight freaking face. I chant the mantra in my head as I open the gate and jog over to gather Laney “Killer” Walker. Whitley looks like a hot mess—steam is rolling off her, there are bits of the ground in her hair and her clothes are covered in grass stains. Evan is on one knee in front of her, using a water bottle to wash the dirt and blood off her legs. Laney, however, is glowing, bouncing on the balls of her feet from side to side, literally begging not to be thrown out.
“You bout ready to go, bada
ss?” I ask her, reminding myself again about the whole straight face thing.
“Oh, thank God,” Zach huffs out, finally relaxing his shoulders, which have been pulled up to his ears since the first quarter.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Laney says in a sugar-coated voice, which I’m sure hurts her throat. “She’s the quarterback. Of course I’m gonna gun for her. I can’t help it if the grass is slippery. And,” she holds up one finger democratically, like the point she’s about make will really bring it home for her, “it’s hard to stop forward momentum.”
“Which is why football players are able to do it every day, Laney?” Zach is trying so hard not to get mad at her, visibly struggling, with clenched fists at his sides, to restrain himself. “Anyone who pummeled the QB after the ball left his hand, repeatedly, would never see the field. We won’t even talk about the flags you’re simply supposed to pull!”
I have to turn my head and feign a cough to camouflage my laughter at Zach’s reply. She really thought she had him.
“But—” She starts to whine and actually stomps her foot, but I’m way ahead of her. Before the next word leaves her mouth, she’s over my shoulder, flailing and slapping my butt and back. “Put me down, Dane! The game isn’t over and my team needs me!”
“Ha! You cost your team thirty yards in penalties, hothead. I’m surprised they’re not clapping right now, thanking me! Now stay still,” I swat her ass hard and she yelps, “or I’m gonna drop you.”
Sawyer’s pulled the car right up to the exit, and as soon as we come into his line of vision, I see him throw his head back and laugh hysterically.
“Open the door!” I yell, which thankfully he hears, jumping out to open the back door for me since my hands are full.
“There she is, ladies and gentlemen, the MVP!” he teases her.
“Shut it, Sawyer!” she hisses.
“I’m gonna throw her in here, then you stand in front of her door while I walk around. When I’m in, I’ll lock the doors, with yours open, then you hop in and gas it. Got it?” Sadly, I know Laney, and it is completely necessary to have a covert op planned out if we don’t want to chase her down again.