All this thinking, all this living outside of my fog, has convinced me of one thing- I have to try and make things right with Tatum. I have to apologize for the way I acted. And I need to get it out of the way so that I can start focusing on the only thing that should matter today – the game I have to play against North High tonight.
As Summer and I head up the sidewalk towards school, I can feel eyes on me and as I look around I notice there are clumps of people centered around copies of The Observer. Shit. I completely forgot that her article about me was running today. In fact, I don’t even know if it crossed my mind that other people would be reading it. It was so personal and sentimental. The thought of other people reading it makes me a little uncomfortable. The thought of Summer reading it makes my entire body go stiff.
When we walk through the door there is no one there to greet me. I see the team off to the side and they too, are focused on the article. I slap Reggie on the back and tell him, “Hey, man.”
He looks up at me with disgust on his face. As I look around the circle, with Nash at the center, I realize none of their reactions look good. “So you’re a God and we should all get down on our sad, pathetic knees and praise you for carrying this team and making Carver what it is?”
“What the hell are you talking about, man?” I ask Reggie.
He pushes the paper into my chest so hard I stumble backwards.
“It’s good to know how you really feel you phony piece of shit,” he says before my entire team turns and walks away from me. I look at the paper and hear Summer gasp immediately. A God in Carver, the title says. Below it is a picture of me being held in the air by my teammates after one of our victories. In the middle is a quote about ten times larger than the rest of the font that says, “I am a God. This town should drop to their knees, fold their hands and pray to me because I’m the only one who can save this town and bring them the state championship.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter. “I can’t believe she did this to me.”
“Did you say that?” Summer whispers.
“Of course not. I mean, yeah, I might have but she was goading me. The words, is that what you want to hear, were attached to the end of the sentence because it is what she wanted to hear. Jesus, I never thought she’d do this to me.”
“This is bad, Brandon. I mean Tatum has had her moments and you haven’t exactly been nice to her this week but… this is bad.”
“What the fuck? Did she do this to me… because of the way I treated her… for not telling her about Nash and Jolee?”
“Yeah, I would assume so.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I need to go find her.”
“Be nice, Brandon,” she calls after me.
I swing by her locker, ignoring the dirty looks I’m getting, then head to the library when I can’t find her in the halls. She’s not there but Angel is. He’s staring at The Observer looking just as dumbfounded as I feel. “Where’s Tatum?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
“She’s taking the day off. I’m assuming you know why,” he says flatly, not looking up from the paper. “I can’t believe she did this. I mean, I know she’s having a rough week and you’ve been a complete dick to her, but this was never the story she wanted to run.”
I pull out a chair and sit at Angel’s table, rubbing my eyes and trying to wrap my head around what just happened, what it means as far as our team and this game goes. Clearly the guys aren’t loving me. I’m gonna have to go explain what happened to Coach Mason. I’m guessing other media outlets will get a hold of it and the questions I’m gonna have to answer after tonight’s game are gonna be a lot messier than the ones I’m used to getting. Jesus, what a damn disaster.
“She wrote this the same week she did her interview with you. The week she joined The Observer,” he tells me, his eyes still trained on the article. “When she showed it to me I was impressed: she had balls and she could write.” He pauses to shake his head. “I respected her after I read this but after she wrote that second article I respected her even more. Exposing King Brandon was one thing, but exposing herself like she did in that second article she wrote… it was admirable.”
He pauses to let out a disbelieving laugh then looks at me. “I was jealous of you,” he tells me, his eyes squinted like he’s examining me. “Not because you’re Brandon Eastman, but because of that second article. Despite the wall of bitchery she surrounds herself with, she’s probably the coolest girl I’ve ever met… and you’ve had her in your life since you guys were babies. She cares about you in a way that seems almost impossible. She showed a side of you that made me want someone to know me that well. How lucky are you? Who has that… with anyone?
“She was proud of that piece. She was excited to show it to you. And then you threw her out of your life. And you know what? I can’t stop thinking about that. Why the hell would you do that?”
I stare at Angel not knowing what to say. I feel like scum. Like the shit that gets stuck between the treads of my sneaker. “I was stupid. I was protecting her lying, cheating boyfriend. I couldn’t look at her knowing what I knew.”
“You knew what he did?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t tell her?”
“No.”
“Even after she showed you what she had written about you?”
I can’t even answer that. All I can do is drop my head and shake it.
“Wow. That’s shameful. I guess I can’t really blame her for her change of heart.”
“You have any ideas how I can make it up to her?”
“I’m not really in the business of begging and pleading. Maybe the two of you can bond over your shared outcast status. People are gonna hate her for further soiling the good Carver Cougar name and you for being an ungrateful prick.” He stands then and walks away from me.
“Shit,” I mutter. I stormed in here ready to curse her out and demand an explanation. What the hell is wrong with me? How could I be so blind? How could I have done that to her? Cut her out of my life again?
I pick up the paper that Angel left behind. I force myself to read it, cringing the entire time because, Jesus, did she make me sound like a total arrogant prick. But when she wrote this it’s who I was to her. I think about the contrast between the two articles and it becomes blatantly clear what I have lost. To Tatum, I am not the guy in that article she showed me, the one she loves. I am this asshole.
And I guess that’s what I deserve. Whatever I’m going to have to endure for the rest of the day, whatever happens because of this article on the field tonight, I deserve it.
27
Life is shit. It couldn’t get much shittier if I intentionally tried to lead the shittiest life I could imagine.
Yesterday I avoided Brandon, and especially Nash, at all costs, but it’s like I could feel their presence all day long. I couldn’t stop imagining who Nash was hitting on and picturing Brandon giving him encouraging slaps on the back as he did so.
Yet, I couldn’t help but regret the choice I had made the night before when I was in a raw state of pain and told Mr. Lawrence to run the story. This morning when I got up and looked at myself in the mirror I hated what I saw. I hated what I had become and I couldn’t face Brandon. I thought skipping school today would minimalize the backlash of running that story and I’m sure it did. I’m sure being in school today would have been even worse than it was yesterday.
But I also figured people would look at that article and realize that it was all a fluke. The constant text updates I’m getting from Angel and Presley are letting me know that’s not the case. Nash called several times but I have no desire to talk to him. His text let me know that he’s not mad at me and that he still loves me which means the rest of the school doesn’t share his sentiment. Even my mom had heard the news by lunch time. Even my mom is disappointed with me.
So instead of staying in that house, I decided to hang out with Angel and invited Presley along figuring she would enjoy my depressing ass and Angel
’s know it all one more than the football game.
Angel brings us out to the garage where he and his band practice and I’m actually impressed. It’s not really a garage. I mean, technically it is, but it’s detached from the house and holds none of the standard garage fillers. There’s a raised platform at the far end, which holds a drum kit, a mic stand and a bunch of black boxes and wires. The rest of the garage feels like a low class lounge – love seats, chairs and coffee tables are arranged in little sections. There’s even a bar against the wall.
“Jesus, do you charge people to get into this place?” I ask him.
“Usually. I mean if we’re playing than yeah, of course I do.”
“People pay to come watch your crappy band play?” I ask doubtfully, plopping down onto one of the loveseats.
“Really?” he asks, taking a seat on the arm of the chair adjacent to me and crossing his arms. “You think I would do something half-assed? Heading a band is no different than heading the paper or Word Masters or the Math and Science club for that matter. Contrary to the stereotypical rock star image, the best thing you can have in order to be a great front man is a big brain. I’ve been reading music since I was three. I started composing my own songs when I was four. By the time I was nine I could play four instruments. People love a guitar player who can actually play the guitar and I… can play the damn guitar. The other element is writing good lyrics and you know I can do that. My lyrics are brilliant, elusive, emotive and clever. Plus, I have a sweet voice.”
“Wow, you’re super humble,” Presley says with a straight face.
“I just tell it like it is,” he says with a shrug. “So, I’m assuming you want a drink?” he says, looking at me.
“I’m assuming that woman inside with her cute bob wearing an apron over her floral skirt and offering me cookies that you call Mom, would not approve.”
“You would assume, as you often do, wrong. Mom likes to keep me happy and she likes to keep me close. Mom and Dad’s motto is if you want to have a drink and play your rock and roll music we’d rather have you do it here where we know you’re safe.” He stands and head’s around the bar. “Presley?” he asks, holding up a bottle of beer.
“Yes, please.”
“I have to admit the only reason I agreed to come over here was because I needed to get away from my Mom whose motto is, You’re such a prude, Tatum, come get drunk with me. I was dreading spending the night in a room filled with the table of elements, a mobile of the solar system, framed pictures of Einstein, a bookshelf full of dictionaries and encyclopedias and miniature models of dinosaur bones.”
“Ah, you’re talking about my bedroom and, unfortunately for you, I only bring girls that I’m sleeping with in there.”
Presley laughs and despite myself I crack a smile.
He hands us our beers and takes a seat across from us. He picks up an acoustic guitar, flops a leg over the arm of his chair and starts absently plucking out a melody. “So do you think the good people of Carver showed up at tonight’s game with rakes and stakes or just signs of protest?”
“Seriously, Angel?” Presley loud whispers like I can’t hear her even though she’s sitting right next to me.
“Yeah, seriously. The head of my mom’s church circle called her tonight and asked her to pray for Brandon. Maybe you don’t realize that claiming to be a god, much less the God, is about the biggest sin you can commit. I can guarantee this Sunday the men of the cloth will not be praying for Brandon’s arm, but for his soul.”
“Shut the hell up,” Presley tells him.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Angel believes in tough, passive-aggressive love. I get it, Angel. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have run that article.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just trying to prepare you, in a loving environment where your only two friends are present, for what’s about to happen to him. What’s been happening to him since the paper came out this morning.”
“Sounds like you’re part of the Brandon Eastman Church,” Presley says.
“Not at all,” he tells her. “It’s complete shit the way he treated her this week and the way he chose not to inform her that her boyfriend slept with one of your relatives even when she asked him to his face. But I am a true professional. I know better than to make decisions that will live forever in print based on emotions.”
“I believe it was you who encouraged me to run that article in the first place. In fact you used some pretty strong words to try and convince me.”
“That was before I got the chance to see Brandon through your eyes.”
“I was blind for a couple of weeks.”
“Fine. I’ll let it go. Did I tell you that Brandon wasn’t the only football player I got to spend several minutes of my precious time talking to today?”
“Don’t even say his name,” I warn him. If there is one good thing about the drama over today’s paper it’s that I haven’t thought of Nash every second of the day today. I was doing such a good job of avoiding the phone I didn’t even have to talk myself out of picking his calls up. He’s been calling constantly since Wednesday night. Last night he did it from his truck that was parked outside of my house all night long and was still there when I woke this morning.
That was another reason I had to get out of the house. My mom is completely on his side. Even though she witnessed the fight we had and knows what he did, his devotion to me is worthy of forgiveness, according to her. I loved that boy more than I ever thought I could love anyone, but I think my mom loved him more. I miss him. I don’t feel right without him but I know that there is no future with him and I can’t even entertain the idea of forgiveness.
“It’s better that you found out, Tatum. I know it hurts, but you should have seen him at school today and yesterday for that matter, when you could have shown up at any moment. He’s got his posse back and from the looks of it he wasn’t bothered by them.”
“Jesus, Presley. I can’t mention Brandon’s backlash but you think it’s okay to talk about girls hanging all over… him? I’m a dude and even I know that’s not helpful.”
“Oh my God, Tatum,” Presley says, resting her hand on my leg. “I’m sorry. Talking shit about Nash is like second nature, even when you were happy with him. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No,” I tell her. “Keep talking. Give me every reason there possibly is for leaving him, for hating him, for needing him out of my life.”
“Seriously?” Angel asks, “Because that’s a discussion I can participate in. A, he’s at a fifth grade reading and math level at best. B, his happy go lucky attitude is annoying as hell. C, he’s clearly got a drinking problem.”
“D,” Presley cuts in eagerly now that I’ve given her the go ahead. “His perfect honey colored hair, green eyes, smile, bone structure and chiseled body are literally all he has and he knows it. He uses it to get everything he wants and he thinks that’s fine. He doesn’t appreciate any one. He thinks he deserves to be catered too and fawned over all day long. He relishes in all the attention those stupid girls give him, it’s like the fuel he runs on. He has absolutely no standards – he’ll make out with any girl who wants a piece of him and he willingly has sex with Jolee. You are the coolest girl I’ve met in this town and it was depressing to watch you wasting your time with him.”
When she stops, Angel and I are both staring at her.
“I can’t tell if you genuinely loath him or if you have some pent up sexual desires for him,” Angel eventually says.
“Loath,” she practically shouts at him.
“I don’t know. You’re description of all of his perfect parts was pretty detailed.”
“On the spectrum of My Type, he doesn’t even rank.”
“Oh yeah, what’s your type?” Angel asks suggestively.
“Honestly? Before you opened your mouth it would have been you. Cookie cutter pretty boy does not equal desirable to me. But you have your own thing going on, you clearly don’t care what anyone thinks ab
out you, there’s an edge to you and plus I like blue eyes.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he tells her.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“I wasn’t asking you out.”
“Good,” she tells him.
“Fine,” he says with a laugh.
“Oh my God, that was completely uncomfortable,” I tell them. “Should I go outside for a moment so you two can have some privacy?”
Angel smirks at Presley and she stares at him for a moment before turning to me and saying. “I have a boyfriend.”
“He lives a thousand miles away,” I remind her.
“He lives in my hometown which I’m going back to as soon as my mom can get her shit together.”
“If you say so.”
“Why are we even talking about me? Aren’t we supposed to be focusing on your life?”
“I think we pretty much got it figured out: I wasted basically all of it on an asshole who never loved me enough to be faithful. I am a leper in Carver and there’s a good chance that I’ll be burned at the stake. The guy who I stupidly let fully back into my life hated me before I even wrote that article. Basically in a week’s time I’ve gone from, for once, having my life figured out to starting from scratch.”
Presley looks down at her hands as she picks her cuticles. “I talked to Summer for a while today. I found her in the bathroom in the middle of third period having a break down.”
“One more person in my life I’ve lost thanks to the article?” I guess.
“No. Not at all. Am I wrong or is she seriously like the nicest, most generous person that has ever existed?”
“Yes, she is,” Angel and I say at the same time.
“She was upset because she didn’t want this to come between you and Brandon. She felt bad for him because… she thinks he’s in love with you.”
A God in Carver (Carver High #1) Page 19