Mom and Dave stare at Ayla with their mouths open. I might be staring a little bit, too.
That was more words than my sister has said at one time in . . . months.
“So?” Ayla prompts. “Can I go to the game on Friday?”
Our mother finally shakes herself out of her shock and nods. “Of course, sweetie. Of course.”
“You know,” Dave says, glancing at Mom and then back at Ayla, “we really should make it a family night out. Show our support all together. This is such a terrible time, and we’re so lucky—Ayla’s right, this could be a huge fundraising opportunity. It’s the least we can do to show up.”
“That’s a great idea,” Mom says, brightening. “I don’t have a shift until Saturday afternoon, so I can definitely be there.”
Ayla smiles at them both—actually smiles! With her teeth!—and then takes another drink of her water. Probably so she can be ready to give another monologue about civic involvement or something.
“Rosie, you can get us all tickets at school, right?” Dave points his fork at me. “So we don’t have to buy them at the door?”
“Oh, I forgot,” Ayla jumps in, “they’re going to charge more for tickets, too, and give the extra to the Red Cross!” She smiles again, triumphantly this time. I wonder if it was her idea, the pricier tickets.
But it doesn’t really matter either way. “I’m not going,” I tell Dave. “But sure, I can buy tickets for you guys.”
Now our parents are staring at me—but not with openmouthed wonder. With serious irritation.
“Rosie, you know we let you skip Ayla’s banquet last week. For a football game.” Mom’s keeping her voice even, and I’m sure she’s thinking she can get what she wants without ruining Ayla’s good mood.
But she’s asking too much.
“I’m sorry I didn’t go to the dinner thing,” I say, and I really mean it. I would love to go back in time and skip the game, skip seeing Ryan kissing some mystery dude who he’s obviously never going to tell me about. And I would kill to not have been able to go to Gabe’s party. I’d do just about anything to have been forced to leave that stupid church-basement dinner an hour early, due to the terrible storm, and never have to hurt my best friend so much that she won’t talk to me. Whenever time machines are invented, I will be the first in line, and I will see my moody sister get some dumb certificate for being such a good Catholic, and I won’t ever know what it’s like to sleep in an armchair in Gabe’s parents’ fancy sitting room.
But in this version of history, Mom is not winning this argument.
“I’m really not going, though,” I say. I catch Ayla’s eye and add, “Sorry. I’ll give you a donation.”
“I’m not sure this is actually a debate right now,” Dave says gently. Mom’s hand is pressed on the table next to her napkin, and he places his fingers over hers. United front and all that. “Last week we let you go to a party, and this week we’re asking you to do something as a family. It can’t be about you all the time, Rosie. Sometimes you have to do things for your sister. I’m sure whatever party you want to go to this week is really—”
“Party?” I yelp. “Seriously? You don’t even know why I can’t go. You don’t even ask me, you’re just like, ‘Nope, Rosie, your life is dumb, do what we say now.’”
“Hey,” Mom snaps, but I’ve already stood up from the table.
“Whatever!” I yell at them. Ayla jumps in surprise, but I don’t care. She’s not the only one who can dump a tantrum all over everyone. “I’ll go to the fucking football game with my family! For charity!”
Dave starts to get out of his chair, too, saying, “That is not an appropriate way to speak to your—”
“And by the way, no one has parties during the game, Dave. Obviously I’m the only one here who’s ever had a social life, but whatever, let’s all wear matching sweaters to the goddamn field on Friday! Go, Fuller family!”
Dave’s face is so red I think he might burst a blood vessel, and frankly, as mad as I am, I’m afraid to even look at my mom.
“I want you to apologize for that language right now.” Dave manages to keep his voice level.
But I don’t. “I’m SORRY!” I shriek. “I’m very fucking sorry for my language!”
And with that, I turn and run out of the kitchen—literally run, all the way to the stairs and up to my room, where I slam the door as hard as I can and fall to my knees on the carpet, panting.
That was . . . clichéd.
Awesome. More input from the voice.
I lean over so I’m on my hands and knees, still trying to get my breathing under control. It was a cliché, I guess. And it came out of nowhere, like the other night when I cried at work.
My chest tightens again as I lower myself all the way to the floor, trying not to be scared.
After a minute I’m able to roll over onto my back and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars Maddie and I put up in seventh grade. She wanted to make the whole solar system, but in the end we just scattered them everywhere and did a Big Dipper in the middle. They’re all so old that the color has turned a pukey yellow, and even though it’s already pretty dark in here, they aren’t very bright. They lost whatever it is that makes them glow years ago.
There’s a scratching sound at my door that might be a knock, and then I hear, “Are you in there?”
Ayla shoves her nose through the doorway and looks around, not finding me right away.
“Do you want a light on?” she asks. It’s obvious from her tone that I should want a light on. Probably to do my homework or plan the next great storm-victim fundraiser.
“Go away,” I say.
I expect her to argue or at least say something mean, but she doesn’t.
She goes away.
And it’s just me, alone, with the stars that won’t shine.
14
“I SEE SOME room all the way up there, does that look good?”
“Sure! Let’s go and then I’ll come back down to get snacks. Or do you want to just save me a seat?”
“Yeah, why don’t we do that? Can you get me a diet whatever?”
“No popcorn or anything?”
“Nah, I figure we can go out after the game—girls?”
Mom and Dave turn back to look at us, and Mom’s eyebrows raise in surprise.
“What?” she asks.
“Can we just sit?” I hiss, and at the same time Ayla moans, “The seats are gonna be taken by the time we get up there.”
Dave rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you two agreeing on something, for once. Snacks?” He points at us, but we’re already shaking our heads impatiently.
“All right, let’s go,” Mom says, and starts climbing the bleachers.
I can feel eyes on me, but I keep mine pointed down, staring at the metal stairs clanking under my wedges. Off to my right I hear Olivia’s voice say, “Oh my God!” but it doesn’t sound like she’s talking about me. Then I hear Maddie laugh, and that does sound personal, somehow.
Finally we’re up past their rows and sidestepping over to some of the last free spots left. It’s not as crowded as last week, but almost. And it’s even more intense. Groups of parents were huddled around in the parking lot and down at the edge of the field, trading horror stories about last week’s storm. The charity tables were set up two hours early for a kind of bizarre tailgating thing. Ayla’s already been here since school let out, helping Father Matt with stuff. I went home after school and then drove here with Mom and Dave, because apparently I’m now the twelve-year-old in the family.
We sit and I finally let myself look around, carefully figuring out who, exactly, is here. The week has only gotten worse by the day. A bunch of the football players have grabbed my ass in the hallways, even the ones with girlfriends, and not in the funny, friendly way they used to. Or maybe it just feels worse to me now, I don’t know—each time it happens I try to laugh, then end up in the closest bathroom, sure I’m going to puke.
And Olivia seems to be on
a mission to make every other girl in school hate me as much as she does. I know there was that stupid kiss with Annabelle’s crush, but otherwise I honestly don’t know what I ever did to Olivia. Besides being prettier than her, which obviously I can’t do anything about.
God, I’m being a bitch. But Olivia always is, and no one ever seems to care. I never cared, either, because I had whichever boy I wanted. And Maddie. And Ryan. And that was enough. More than enough, actually.
I look down and to the left, where Olivia’s blond head is bobbing around between Annabelle’s black hair and Maddie’s high, messy bun. They look like a book cover, all girly and happily chatting and perfectly matched without being identical. Maddie leans in close and says something that makes Annabelle gasp and look toward the field excitedly, and Olivia shakes her head in this exaggerated way that sets my teeth on edge. I wish those two would just go cheer, already. They must love sitting in the stands in their stupid uniform skirts, acting like they own the whole school.
I feel like a creep, spying on them like this, but as I watch I’m slowly reminded of freshman year, when the four of us hung out sometimes. A lot, actually. We’d all been at the same dance classes when we were kids. And then in ninth grade we all had the same lunch period, so we became kind of a group. I’d forgotten all about that, I realize now. It was always a little stressful because Olivia had all these rules about food—no gluten, no soy, no sugar—and she’d constantly list off all the toxins the rest of us were eating and probably dying from. Plus, she obviously wanted to be Maddie’s favorite friend and resented me for hogging that particular honor.
Toward the end of the year I started hanging out with this junior named Ethan, and Maddie was spending more time with the other girls on the soccer team, and we both sort of drifted away from Olivia and Annabelle, who were all into cheerleading and not much else.
It occurs to me now, way too late, that Olivia was probably thrilled when Finn Kramper stuck his tongue down my throat and broke Annabelle’s heart. She’d hated me all along, but when that happened she had an ironclad excuse to hate me in the open.
Suddenly everyone is standing up, and all the cheerleaders still in the stands are running down to the field. It’s already time for the national anthem. It’s weird, hearing my mom sing next to me, with Ayla’s high-pitched voice on my other side. It feels like old times, going to church together. Except now I can also see Dave climbing the bleachers, holding a whole armful of drinks and snacks. He reaches us right when everyone is sitting down again, and before I know it I’m holding a giant Sprite and a bag of pretzels.
“I didn’t want—” I start, but Mom elbows me gently.
“Just eat some of it,” she says. “It’ll be a while until dinner, right?”
I glance over at Ayla, who doesn’t seem fazed at all to be the new owner of a Sprite and a bag of Twizzlers.
“Split those with me?” I ask. She hesitates, so I add, “Here, you can share these, too.”
The sharp sting of the sugary drink and then biting down on the candy makes me feel better for a while. Dave keeps leaning over Mom to ask me who people are or what grade they’re in, but even that isn’t so bad. It keeps me from staring at Maddie, at least. Charlotte and a few of the other student council kids have replaced her cheerleader friends.
Right before halftime, I see Ryan come in. His hair is gelled back and he’s wearing another nice button-down, plaid this time. He scans the bleachers and then waves to Maddie, walking toward her row.
My stomach does a big rise and fall, like a little kid on a swing. I can’t believe he’s picking sides. Her side.
As if he can feel my humiliation from all the way down there, Ryan suddenly looks right up at me. He’s still climbing the stairs, but he pauses long enough to give me a You’re HERE? look.
I shake my head, just once, trying to tell him—I don’t know. To forget it, I guess. Then he sees the rest of my family, and his face turns apologetic, like he can tell I’m here against my will. And then he looks away, squeezing onto the end of the bleacher next to Maddie.
What a wonderfully awesome night this is. I suck on my straw so hard I get brain freeze and have to tense all my muscles just to keep myself from throwing the cup out over everyone in front of us in a fit of rage.
“You okay?” Mom asks, I guess noticing that I have one hand pressed to my forehead.
“Mmph,” I mutter.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Ayla announces importantly.
“Okay, let me get my bag—” Mom starts, but Ayla stands up and lets out this huge sigh.
“I can go to the stupid bathroom on my own, Mom.”
I wait for our parents to react, for Dave to tell Ayla to be more respectful or Mom to say something about how it’s dark and crowded here and neither of us is as mature as we seem to think. But we’re technically having this nice family night, and I can feel that neither of them wants to be the one to ruin it.
I kind of want to say something bitchy myself, but instead I stand up next to her and say, “I have to go, too. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Mom gives me a grateful look, but I’m too mad at myself to even smile back. Why did I just volunteer to parade around in front of everyone again? If I were smart, I’d be hiding behind my parents until the end of the game.
Ryan looks over his shoulder at us as we’re making our way down, and when we pass his and Maddie’s row he holds out his hand, just long enough for me to brush his fingers with mine. I don’t want to forgive him for this, but it’s not like I asked him to come to the game, either. It didn’t occur to me, even after what I saw last week. Maybe Maddie asked him to come. Maybe he already told her about his mystery football boyfriend.
My stomach lurches again with jealousy, but I know I’m being completely self-centered. As we circle around the bleachers I see all the tables set up for the church and some other groups helping the storm victims, and I feel like I could probably try a little harder to have some perspective on my miserable life.
“Which one is yours?” I ask Ayla.
She raises her eyebrows at me, surprised I’m talking to her, I guess. But then she points and says, “That one. And that one. It wasn’t that much work. It’s mostly the coordinating stuff, after the money comes in, that’ll be hard.”
“Oh,” I say. “I could probably help out, if you need people.” As soon as I say it, though, I think of all the show-off posts right after the storm, everyone making sure they could be seen being good. I sort of don’t want to be seen at all lately, not even for a good cause.
Ayla shrugs as she walks. “If you want. We’ll have a lot of stuff to fold, after the clothing drive. I think Alex is getting the whole team to volunteer, so that’ll be cool.”
It’s funny, I’ve barely thought about Alex tonight. He’s been right in front of me this whole time, playing or sitting on the bench with his sweaty hair shining under the lights. I can see him every time I look at the field.
But I’ve been trying to not see Cory. It’s been easier to stare at Maddie and feel bad than it has to just watch the game. Because the more I look at Cory, the stranger I feel. Bad, obviously. But also just really, really confused.
Why hasn’t he messaged me back? What happened last weekend, exactly? What did he tell Maddie—that’s what I’d really like to know. But even more, I want to know what he was thinking that night at Gabe’s.
Because the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I’d really flirted with him that much. Did I really do anything that said, Sneak away from your new girlfriend and have sex with me? I mean, really?
I keep thinking that I was drunk, I was stupid. I’d hooked up with him like that before—we hadn’t had sex yet, but we were probably going to. Ironically—sort of—I probably would’ve had sex with him that night, if we’d still been hooking up. If it hadn’t been for Maddie.
And then a big part of me wants to believe what I tried to tell Maddie in the hall that day. Because it could be true�
��he could’ve just gotten confused in the dark. Maddie and I don’t look alike when the lights are on, but we’re about the same height, and my mom says we have a lot of the same mannerisms from spending so much time together. Or he could’ve been so drunk that he forgot he wasn’t hooking up with me anymore . . . which isn’t a great excuse, but it sort of makes sense.
“Isn’t that Paul?” Ayla asks, shaking me out of my pointless, gerbil-wheel thoughts.
“Where?”
She points and I see him—and he already sees us. Paul Maziarz is striding across the lawn on those long legs of his, grinning at me like I’m water in the desert.
“Rose Parade!” he yells from a few paces away. And then he’s close, scooping me up, spinning me around in a big hug.
He smells the same, like a mix of CK One and weed, and his arms are still strong even though his chest feels a little softer. I hang on and let him spin me, but about halfway around I start feeling dizzy. And kind of annoyed, actually. Almost . . . angry.
I used to love when Paul would scoop me up. And now I just want down, away—why do I—
My stomach plummets again, worse than before.
Cory ruined this, I think.
Am I always going to feel shitty now, when a boy grabs me? Am I always going to panic a little, wondering which girl I’m hurting when a boy touches me instead of her?
Paul sets me down and goes, “Whew! You look like a delicate flower, but you got some weight, girl!”
I do my best to arrange my face into a smile, but it might not be working. In fact, it probably isn’t, because Paul’s bushy eyebrows suddenly furrow.
“Not like you’re fat, baby. Like muscle.” He flexes one arm, then the other, gun-show style.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, finally finding my voice. I want to turn and run to the safety of the bathrooms, but I force myself to be polite. Normal. “How are you? Why aren’t you in Kansas?”
“Big game!” he booms, pointing toward the field. “Big storm!” He points the other way and makes a face. “Crazy shit, right? Oh, sorry.” He glances at Ayla, hovering close to my elbow.
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