Our teams were usually state ranked, playoffs were around the corner, and there were college scholarships at stake. Not for Tess, necessarily, but it was still a vital part of her high school experience. While I didn’t give a single shit about sports myself, I could at least appreciate that many of my peers depended on them for their health, sanity, and future.
The majority appreciated that too. After an open session of the PTA that Sunday, democracy declared Play Ball!, starting Friday with a football game against crosstown rivals, Bloomington. It was a rescheduled version of the previous week’s homecoming game, there were apparently “playoff implications,” and while there would be no dance and no parade with floats ferrying high school royalty, the stands would be full of current and former students and anyone who wanted to give a defiant finger to our predicament.
For most kids, football games weren’t ever about the football. These sporting events were excuses to hang out in the bleachers and catch up with friends, or lounge behind the bleachers in the softball fields, where blankets could be spread out and kids could watch the stars in the sky instead of the ones on the field. These brutal battles were distractions from our cloak-and-dagger variety of partying, where booze mixed with Gatorade was smuggled past lazy-eyed security guards. These rousing contests were perfect for covert kissing in the shadows and heart-to-hearts scored to the sounds of cheering parents and girlfriends.
The homecoming game was going to be my first date with Dylan. It was his idea and the arrangements were made by text, since there wasn’t much time in econ to discuss such things. As the week chugged along, the three stories and their subplots fizzled in my head and mixed with the dizzying memory of his hand on my hand. I know, I know. Getting all worked up by a little handholding? Total middle school. Elementary school, even. But when you think about it, hand-holding can be really sexy, especially when you’re holding the hand of someone who may or may not be any number of things.
Was I leery of Dylan? Obviously. Was I excited about seeing him again? Uh . . . yeah. During lunch on Wednesday, Tess made me promise to be careful. “If he’s half the things we think he is,” she said, “I’m not sure you want to be alone with him.”
“That’s why the football game is perfect,” I said. “Plenty of people around, but no one listening in on us.”
“I wish I didn’t have practice that night. I want to watch over you.”
“That’s sweet. But that’s also creepy. I’ll be fine. What are you worried about? That he’ll fill me with quadruplets during halftime or that he’ll douse me in gasoline to celebrate every touchdown?”
Tess took a potato chip from my bag and poked me playfully on the nose with it. “Do you really want to get close to someone who has three kids? Plus all the other stuff? Do you want to have a look inside all his baggage?”
I snatched the chip from Tess’s hand, stuffed it in my mouth, and as I chewed, I said, “I’ve got plenty of baggage myself.”
“A carry-on at best. This guy would have to pay hundreds of dollars to check his.”
“Is Walsh doing a unit on metaphors in AP English or something? Because I don’t think you get extra credit for using such pathetic ones, especially outside of class.”
“I should poison your drink,” Tess said with a fake sneer as she watched me take a slug from my strawberry smoothie.
“Should, but never would,” I said as I wiped my mouth. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you would be sad. You would feel . . . All. The. Feels.”
Tess raised a finger. “How dare you? You know how I hate those words.”
“You won’t hate those words when they’re on the cover of my novel, the blockbusting award-winner that I dedicate To My Darling Tessy.”
“Royalties,” she said as she patted me on the cheek. “Dedications are sweet, but cutting me in on the profits would be a whole lot better.”
“Fine,” I replied. “I’ll be your sugar mama until the end of days. I’ll keep your toes dipped in sand and your body draped in silk.”
She put out a hand out and I shook it. The deal was officially sealed.
fun and games
Front row center.
Or so said the text from Dylan that arrived Friday afternoon. I got a ride to the game with the Dalton twins because Dylan hadn’t offered one. I figured there wasn’t enough room on his skateboard.
The Daltons shared a red RAV4 bought with money they made bussing tables at Covington Club, the restaurant at our local golf course. At least that’s where they told their parents they got the cash. In reality, the majority of their income was the redirected allowances of kids who partook in illegal plants and pills. Kids like the late great Katelyn Ogden. Like me.
Joe Dalton was older than Jenna Dalton by a few minutes, but he was definitely the younger at heart. And mind. Since he was supposedly one of the guys with Dylan the night the QuickChek burned down, I could have asked him if the whole Molotov cocktail thing was true, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to spoil my evening. So instead I sat quietly in the back, while he drove and argued with Jenna about whether it would be better to retire to Florida or Buenos Aires.
Joe was advocating, poorly, in favor of Florida. “Bikinis, bottle service, and alligators, Jenna! Doesn’t get any better!”
Jenna, on the other hand, was selling Buenos Aires like a real estate agent, highlighting “the mild climate, the European flavor, the dancing till dawn, and the steaks as big as laptops.”
After a while, they seemed to forget I was there and were trading inside insults, which are like inside jokes but even worse because as Joe hollered, “You’re such an Aunt Jessica!” and Jenna yelled, “Go puke on Donald Duck again,” I had no idea who was winning. It was getting unbearably loud and so I started fanta-sizing about the two of them screaming themselves to death and leaving me all their drug money so I could hop on the back of Dylan’s skateboard and the two of us could catch the next plane to Argentina where we’d forge a new life full of red. Red wine. Red meat. Red-hot love.
When we reached the lot for the football field, I slipped out with a “mucho appreciation, amigos,” and hightailed it to the bleachers. The fight song was pumping and the seats were as full as I’d ever seen them, but sure enough, there was Dylan in the front row with a bag of popcorn next to him, saving me a seat.
“Here I am,” I said, and sucked in a deep breath. I was not in shape. I had never been in shape.
He pulled the popcorn to his lap, revealing a buttery stretch of aluminum for me to sit on. “And there you go,” he said, but he failed to wipe any of the sludge away. It didn’t bother me, necessarily, though it did leave me with a decision. I didn’t see any napkins, and I didn’t want to be a pain in the ass from the get-go and ask him to fetch me some. I especially didn’t want to call him out for being either clueless or inconsiderate. So I was left with a choice between having a buttery hand or a buttery butt.
Protip: Always avoid the buttery butt.
And that’s what I did. I ran a hand across the seat a couple of times while Dylan was watching the referee flip a coin. As I sat, I flicked the butter down into the chasm beneath the bleachers. “What
