One step. Two step. Position by putting my left hand on the shoulder of the girl in front, then moving that hand to Devin’s shoulder. Let it fall back to my side. Lined up. The drum starts, a rim tap, marking time, and
we march in place, batons at rest in the crooks of our right arms. Steam rises from each of us as we breathe, little feathers of white in the night.
The Bear nods to the flag-bearers, and we march across the parking lot, past the practice field, through the gate, and onto the track surrounding the football field.
Legs high. Shoulders back. Chin up. Shoulders
back
.
On either side of the field, bleachers stuffed with people stretch toward the night sky. Lights blaze as we march onto the grass. The announcer’s saying something, but I never can understand him. All I can hear is the rim tap of the drum, the sound of feet striking grass, my breathing, and Devin’s breathing beside me.
I march past the flag-bearers to my position at the thirty yard line, stop, and mutter, “Luck and legs,” to Devin as she heads for her spot five yards farther down.
“Luck and legs” replaced “Break a leg” last year, after one of the seniors really did break her ankle.
“One, two, three, four!” the drum major bellows, and the band hits the school song.
Blinking against the lights, heart slamming, I swing into action with them, two batons whirling so fast the people in the stands see a silver-white blur.
First toss. Dance step, dance step, second toss. Clean. Clean catch. Somebody swears—a freshman. Dropped baton, but she grabs it and pastes her smile back on and twirls harder.
Boy will she ever hear about swearing from the Bear.
Look
the part.
Play
the part. If you screw it all up, just snatch the stick off the ground and keep going.
I’m going.
Am I ever going.
High kick. Just right. Perfect. Yes. Yes! I toss high, freakishly high, and watch the silver and white blur shoot up, then sink straight back to my hand. Bam! Another clean catch. The skin around my perpetual twirling calluses burns. I suck in a huge breath and hope my smile glitters like my hair.
Batons high in the crooks of our arms, we transition to marching as the band shifts to the fight song of the university in the next town. It’s fast and bouncy. Illusion, illusion, then marching again … and … present for the National Anthem.
The Bear paces by on the track.
I thrust my chin up and straighten my back before she even glances in my direction.
It’s cold enough for me to see my breath, so maybe my face isn’t wet from sweat. I want my hair glitter to gleam all the way to the stands, but definitely
not
my face.
The choir director warbles, “And the hooooo-oooome of thuuuuuuuuh brrrrr-aaaaaaaaave.”
We run into two straight lines. On cue from the drum major, we separate into a band-twirler-flag-corps corridor, and the Bear and the band director wheel the big paper tiger into place at the head of the lines. Seconds later,
with loud roars and lots of mouthing, the football team explodes through the paper tiger.
I do not trip Adam-P, even when he throws me a weird look on his way to the sideline.
You get what you give
, I think at his retreating back, and imagine him upside down with some 300-pound linebacker smashing his head into the grass.
“Break,” the Bear calls, and we scatter-drill off the field like a barely controlled riot, running back to the track, then charging into the reserved section of the stands, where we’re supposed to watch the game and cheer at appropriate times.
Devin and I flop into our seats, where the Bear distributed our baton cases, and we put away our batons for the moment. My heart beats hard from the pregame well into the first quarter, and I jump and yell the first time Adam-P gets sacked.
Devin drags me back into my seat. “You are so gonna get Bear-bit if you don’t knock that off.” She smacks me in the shoulder. “Want a hot dog? Tevo’s got first quarter break.”
Tevo, the nice, nice guy with the misfortune of being Devin’s latest selection, looms beside us, resting his tuba on his hip.
He has to be eight feet tall, I swear.
I hold back a sigh and say, “No hot dog.”
Then I glance around Tevo in hopes of catching the next pile-drive on Adam. “But thanks.”
“A hot dog won’t hurt,” Devin insists. “Just one.”
“No, thanks, really.” My stomach rumbles and clenches.
“Well, okay. Save your calories for the Eatery, I guess.” Devin’s breath-cloud surrounds her like a halo as she jumps up, gives Tevo a quick kiss on the cheek, and sends him off toward concessions.
I stop watching the game since our side has to punt, and there’s no chance of serious pain for Adam-P until the next series. My eyes follow Tevo as he trundles down the steps to do Devin’s bidding.
Having an in-person boyfriend has its good points, I guess.
Would Paul fetch hot dogs for me if he lived here and came to the game with me? But then, he might not even like football games.
If he did, though, and if I could drug my parents and leave them in the trunk or something, he’d hold my hand, or keep his arm around my shoulders. When I get cold, he’d give me his jacket. It would be so nice to feel his warm body next to mine on the bleacher seat, to put my head on his shoulder and let him kiss my hair and hug me closer.
An empty-blah sort of feeling tries to poke its way into my body, as though I’m getting all hollow and unreal and flat like a cartoon character under a giant piano. Before it can get worse, I switch to thinking about stuffing my face at the Eatery.
Oh, crap….
How could I have forgotten about the Eatery last night, when I told Paul what time I’d show for chat?
After the games, the band always goes out for pizza, but I so totally don’t need pizza. And if I go to the Eatery, I won’t get to talk to Paul, probably at all. The way I had to leave chat so fast last night, he might even think I’m blowing him off.
But if I
don’t
go to the Eatery, I’ll have to hear it from Devin, and probably my parents, too, wondering what’s wrong with me.
Are you sick?
Don’t you feel well?
Chan, are you restricting your food?
Honey, a little pizza won’t hurt.
I can just see Mom confiscating the laptop to make sure I’m not reading about anorexia or bulimia.
Somebody edges onto the bleacher beside me, and when I look over to gripe at whoever just stuck an elbow in my ear, I find myself nose to nose with the Bear in her gold and purple warm-ups.
“I—oh,” is all that comes out in an icy swirl of breath.
Devin scoots away from me in a big hurry. So does everybody else.
The Bear’s dark eyes narrow as she gazes into mine. Her black hair’s pulled back like always, but a few strands blow in the cool evening breeze. She studies me
for endless, endless seconds. Meanwhile, Tevo shows up with a chili dog that Devin sends him off to eat rather than down it in front of the Bear.
Finally, the Bear says, “You looked very good in pre-game, Chan Shealy. If you toss like that at Regionals …” She raises a hand and snaps it closed into a fist. “Advanced Trick vill be yours, easily.”
I squirm in my seat. “Um, thanks. I—yeah. Thanks.”
She keeps staring at me. “Your training, you’ll work hard, yes?”
“Yes.” I force a smile, like I do right before marching out on the field.
She pinches my right forearm really hard. “Solid. Don’t let it get bigger.” She nods toward Lauren and my parents, who are sitting two sections away. “You don’t need two seats like Poppa. Train vith heart, and you never vill.”
The crowd groans as the other team scores. I want so badly to look down at Adam-P and laugh, but no way.
The Bear, reading my mind as usual, says, “This thing with you and that quarterback boy, it needs to end, yes?”
I think about arguing with her, telling her it was over a long time ago, but I’m not stupid. I keep my mouth firmly shut and try to look like I’m happy she’s paying attention to me.
“Holding on to things—even vhen you have every right—can take your life avay from you. You understand?”
The Bear straightens my hair, then straightens the sleeve of my leotard. “Your father, that quarterback-boy and his cheer-shouter, vorry, vorry, vorry.” She reaches up and rubs the concealer out from under my raccoon eyes. “Think about your priorities. Let these old bothers go. Sleep better. Sleep more, yes? I vant you sharp for Regionals.”
Can a hole please open in these concrete bleachers so I can fall straight to hell?
Anything would be better than sitting with the Bear when she’s in this kind of mood. Besides, Adam-P’s back to getting the snot kicked out of him and I’m missing it all. As far as I’m concerned, relishing his weekly gridiron abuse
is
part of letting go. I feel a little more free each time he eats grass and limps off the field.
The Bear gets up to leave, and all the majorettes are either hiding or pretending to be in deep conversation, so she won’t sit down with them next. Devin won’t even come near me for the next five minutes, until I give her the you’re-so-not-being-a-best-friend look.
“Well?” She shrugs as she flops down beside me. “I didn’t even get one stupid bite of my chili dog. Ooooooh.”
That last was for a big sack on Adam-P. I smile, she hits me, and so it goes, until we have to line up for half-time.
We lead the band and flag corps onto the field, do a butt-busting routine to “Beast of Burden” and “Miss You” by the Stones, and finish with “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.”
I have one bad miss on a toss-pass, but it’s Devin’s fault. Which doesn’t take the sting out of the lump over my right eye, but at least I don’t have to feel bad about screwing up the exchange.
After we march off, Devin and I stay on the track with the freshman, twirling and tossing and talking about competitions, and even doing a little of our competition routines. The score’s 48–0, and even the parents are talking to each other and cramming down hot dogs instead of watching the slaughter.
When the massacre ends, I’m the first one back in the dressing room to scrub off the glitter and makeup and get my jeans on. Devin’s not far behind me, and of course her first question is, “Whatcha having at Eatery? I think I want waffles.”
I fasten my jeans, then turn my attention to lacing my shoes. “Um, I think—tonight, just once, well—I think I just want to go home and try to get some sleep.”
When I chance a glance at Devin, she’s got her eyebrows raised. “No way. You can’t go home. Chan, what—did the Bear freak you out that bad? She’s probably halfway home by now. She won’t bother you again.”
I stand and shake my head, then tell my best friend an outright lie. “I’m just tired. I really want to go to bed. Just this once, okay? You party for both of us.”
Her eyebrows lower, then she gets a suspicious look. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Internet Paul, does it?”
My lips tremble when I smile, but I pull it off as best I can, then lie a second time. “No. Seriously. I’m sleeeeeeepy.”
“Well, okay.” Devin pouts. “But I’ll miss you!” She gives me a quick hug.
I try to smile again, feeling a little sick, and don’t quite make it.
Devin doesn’t seem to notice. Another hug, then she dashes off to find a ride. I gather my things and hunt down my parents before they leave because they assume I’m going to the restaurant with everyone else.
They seem a little surprised to see me, and Lauren complains because she won’t be getting her compensation visit to Fruity’s Ice Cream. Still, it doesn’t go too badly, and most important, I get home before the time I told Paul I’d be in chat.
Priorities.
Letting go of old bothers.
Later that night, as I curl up and wait for Paul in chat, I feel like I’m really finally and totally moving on from Adam-P. Maybe I can watch him get sacked next game and actually feel a little sorry for him.
Paul and I chat late Friday
and
Saturday night—but we avoid the whole no-secrets step in our relationship. He doesn’t laugh about the bash-lump over my eye, and the idiot really did put money in that Portal account for me showing off my toes before I had to leave so quickly last time, thanks to Lauren.
I tell him he’s a nutcase.
He agrees.
On Sunday, after two hours in the garage working on my twirling program, I finally risk day-chatting a couple of times, hitting a double CONTROL-ENTER to use my bouncing kitten screen-conceal program every time somebody comes too close to my door.
“I understand you might have to go fast,” he says. “If we don’t have another time set, I’ll just e-mail you, or check now and then, okay?”
I swivel in my desk chair and grin at the screen.
“Okay. Deal.” After a few seconds, I type, “So, it’s still daylight. Can I finally get a good look at your face?”
The
Paul is typing
icon stays dead still and quiet.
I glance down at my clothes. Jeans, decent black sweater, and my hair’s not as bad as usual, so I write, “Here. I’ll go first.”
After switching on some lamps, I click open my webcam and let Paul see me in the full light of day.
He still doesn’t say anything, and his webcam icon doesn’t so much as flicker.
“I’ve seen your photos,” I type. “I know what you look like in stills. I just want to see
you
, you know? While we talk. I want to see you smile and stuff. I don’t care if you’ve got scars or zits or anything. I mean it. I hope you trust me.”
My breath gets short and jerky when Paul still doesn’t type.
Way back in my head, worry lights flash off and on.
What’s the big deal about this? I’m about to ask him when he finally starts typing.
I sit back and realize I’m clenching my fists and my jaw.
What pops onto my screen is: “We all have secrets, remember?”
Okay.
That doesn’t sound good.
What if his actual name really is Merwood Spitball like Devin said?
Or—oh, gross. What if he’s some sixty-year-old naked perv after all?