The A-Word (2 page)

To Casey’s credit, their current breakup had been his doing. He didn’t talk about it, but I knew he thought he was protecting her from the inevitable.

I knew better. Breaking up wouldn’t be any protection at all. I just think he figured if Lanie hated him, it might ease things when Management finally plucked him to wherever they pluck angels once they’ve finished their earthly duties. Not that I was such an expert on these matters. Just that I shared a bathroom with him and he drove me to school every morning. Also, I’d been his sister my entire life. My brother had never been the deepest of thinkers. It wasn’t hard to follow the workings of his pea brain. Even now.

Plus everyone’s favorite EMT/bartender Amber Velasco had probably insisted he sever ties with Lanie. More than once I’d heard her refer to Casey’s relationship with his two-time ex as “imprudent and potentially dangerous.” Which was a sophisticated way of saying that he needed to stop hooking up with her in the back of our Merc.

Bosses acted boss-like, even if they were angels.

Which brings us to the game: matters were compounded a few weeks ago when Lanie started seeing Donny Sneed, the varsity quarterback who, while not the brightest star in the sky, was basically a nice guy. Not that this made my brother any less pissy about the whole matter.

Which I totally understood.

Plus, it was football. Casey missed playing like you’d miss an arm or a kidney.

Luckily (ha ha), our parents were currently too preoccupied trying to decide if they should stay married to notice that their son—who had helped save their lives, not that they
exactly knew that—had changed in like a million ways. On the rare occasions they did question something, he made up excuses. Like the other day when Mom looked Casey up and down and back up again, poking a finger at his muscly arm, clearly flummoxed, and finally said, “Have you been taking supplements or something? You know that Creatine is dangerous, right?”

That he still toked up now and then did not enter the discussion. Yes, it turned out that angels could do drugs if they felt like it. Drugs seemed vastly inappropriate, especially considering Casey’s boss was still theoretically a member of the medical community. But who the hell knew what Amber Velasco thought? She was also a bartender. No one ever asked me. No one ever asked my opinion. No one dead, anyway.

“CAN I RIDE in front?” Mags asked.

I tried to kick her. Casey blocked my leg with his.

“We’ll all sit up front,” he said. “We’re all skinny.”

“Goodie,” I told him.

“Skinny?” Mags said. “You’re sweet, Casey.”

“Just stating the facts, ma’am,” Casey said, which made Mags blush. I shot daggers in his eyes. He shot them back.

Maybe he figured being a dickhead would work on me, too. That I would be happy to see him go. That when the inevitable happened, Lanie Phelps wouldn’t be the only one who didn’t miss him. I decided to focus on encouraging Ryan Sloboda out of his social awkwardness. At least it was something that had a chance in hell of coming true.

B
y the end of the second quarter, we were winning, seventeen to seven. The coach put Ryan in on defense.

The cheerleaders, including Lanie Phelps, were chanting and tumbling and tossing themselves into the air. The band was pounding and swaying. The fancy new Jumbotron flashed:
GO SPRING CREEK MUSTANGS!
Followed by:
TEXICON: THE OFFICIAL MUSTANG SPONSOR!
My brother leapt to his feet.

“Don’t forget to bull-rush ’em out there, Sloboda. Show ’em what you got.”

I pinched his arm—hard. “Stop it, you pissant.”

Maggie, bored, grabbed me, and we hightailed it to the concession stand to stuff ourselves with Frito pie—hold the onions—and Dr. Pepper.

After halftime was over, I led Mags down to the fence by the field. “Won’t Casey miss us?” Mags asked, only half-sarcastic since my brother’s angel mojo was a force of nature on females. “Whatever,” I told her. My brother the angel was
being a jerk, even if I was the only one who understood why. “I want Ryan to see me.”

“Oooooh,” Maggie said. She can be sufficiently girlie when she wants to.

On the field, the cheerleaders held up this huge banner that the football guys ran through when they came out. Some corporate sponsor had recently donated a ginormous blow-up mustang head and a smoke machine so that they could burst out of the smoking horse’s head and onto the turf.

Quite the show.

I was still not sure how I felt about Ryan Sloboda other than I liked him enough to wear boots and a skirt and a blouse of questionable buttonage, but when he flew like a banshee out of that horse’s head, my heart gave a ping. And when he waved to me—Me!—as he was trotting toward the sidelines, I waved back. Except part of my mind was still on Casey and Lanie and what could possibly be going through my brother’s head.

WITH THREE MINUTES left, Forest Ridge scored a touchdown and ran the ball for two extra points. Now the score was seventeen us, fifteen them. Even I knew that all Forest Ridge had to do was score a field goal and it would be all over. But we had possession. I knew that, too. Actually, I knew more than that. Unlike my brother, I am not a pea brain. I ran track until Dr. Renfroe began poisoning my boots. I figured I’d even try out again come spring.

In any case, I was fully aware that the Spring Creek Mustangs were in trouble. Ryan was back on the sidelines, pacing up and down.

“Coach won’t put the pissant in, you know.” My brother was now standing next to us, leaning his elbows on the low fence.

“ ’Course not,” I told him, supremely annoyed. “He plays defense. Plus he’s in ninth grade.”

“Put
me
in when I was a freshman. And I played both.”

“That’s right!” Maggie said. “I remember that.” Being as she sounded like an insufferable ditz, I assumed she was trying to flirt. Then she frowned. “But you quit.”

I felt momentarily bad, but only momentarily. My brother trained his sour gaze on the field. Coach Collins tapped Donny Sneed on the helmet. Coach Collins used to be my algebra teacher at Ima Hogg, as well as Casey’s former junior high football coach, but he was now coaching and teaching here at Spring Creek, our high school. Maybe it was a promotion. Or maybe here in Texas the same grumpy blowhards end up having the same jobs, just in different places.

Coach and Donny conferred, heads close.

My brother’s eyes narrowed. He gripped the fence tighter. The list of living people Casey could talk to—namely about how it felt having to break up with his girlfriend so she wouldn’t find out he was an angel—was limited. Nonexistent, in fact, unless he counted me. Now he had to watch her with Donny Sneed.

Donny was about six feet of packed muscle, light brown hair, green eyes, and a white-toothed smile. He treated Lanie like a queen. Whatever they did or didn’t do together, you never heard him talk about it. He was probably good to his mother, too. According to Casey, Donny managed to postpone a midterm for everyone in his government class by arguing nonstop that if we banned guns, Congress would probably ban airplanes and the terrorists would win. The teacher gave up and left the classroom because “lunkhead idiots don’t shut up.” I’m still unclear about whether those were the teacher’s words or Casey’s. What I
do know: the seniors had recently nominated Donny Sneed for class president.

Spring Creek and Forest Ridge lined up. The coaches were pacing like Ryan, talking into their headsets.

“Bootleg,” my brother muttered. “Gotta be a bootleg play. Sneed can do that.”

The band was wailing up a storm and the cheerleaders were chanting, “What about? What about? What about the color shout?” which I suppose they felt was helpful.

I wasn’t sure what a bootleg play was. Did Donny know? Donny reared his arm back like he was going to pass left to the running back.

“Do it!” shouted my brother.

The pass was faked. Donny still had the ball. He dodged right behind the defensive linemen.

“Get downfield!” my brother bellowed. “North and south!”

I guess this meant keep running toward the goal line, because that’s what Donny did—right through the gap in Forest Ridge’s coverage. He was almost free and clear, when number sixty-eight from Forest Ridge broke free and sped after him. He was fast. Faster than the track guys I used to watch. Too fast. He dove for Donny. It was all over. I knew it.

“Uh-oh,” Maggie said.

“Aw, shit,” said my brother. “Idiot.”

Number sixty-eight lunged.

Casey leaned across the fence, stretching out an arm. He blew a breath.

Later, number sixty-eight would tell everyone that some jerk from our school had somehow sabotaged him, messed with his cleats when he wasn’t looking, and that’s why he tripped. But anyone with eyes could see that both his shoelaces
came undone only while he was closing in—undone in such a lace-flapping frenzy that there was no way you could miss it. And trip he did. He fell at Donny’s heels.

The impact must have set Donny off-balance, because he started stumbling, too.

“Jesus Christ,” my brother muttered.

Out on the field, Lanie Phelps gave a girlie yelp.

Donny righted himself—the crowd cheered like wild people—and then he was running across the goal line.

Touchdown. Victory. The score was twenty-three to fifteen. We kicked the extra point to twenty-four and not long after that the buzzer sounded. I eyeballed my brother.

“Thought you hated him,” I whispered in Casey’s ear. Not that I had to lower my voice. No one could hear me with all the joyful shouting.

“I do,” he said. “Fuck.”

Then everyone rushed the field even though it wasn’t allowed, and we pushed on through the gate with them, across the cinder track to the turf, the crowd hooting and hollering about how great Donny had done. How he’d won the game by himself.

But he hadn’t done it by himself. Casey had used his angel mojo to help him.

Lanie Phelps ran toward Donny. He grabbed her up in a celebratory hug, her blonde, pink-ribboned ponytail flying behind her.

Casey started walking toward them. My heart flung itself into my neck, beating like crazy. What was he up to? Maybe I didn’t want to find out. If it were me, I’d want to pound the guy’s face. But
I
wasn’t an angel. On the other hand, even angelized, my brother was an unpredictable sort.

I dashed after him. “Let’s go,” I said, tugging his arm.

Which was when Maggie, scurrying at my side, elbowed me in the ribs. “Look at Casey,” she whispered.

His skin wasn’t just radiant, it was glowing. He didn’t have the same shifting shadows on his face as the rest of us did. There were
no
shadows. Just an invisible sun fixed solely on him, illuminating every feature.

“Those new stadium lights are amazing,” I hollered in case anyone else was looking, which other than my best friend, they were not. They were too busy congratulating Donny for something he hadn’t exactly done. Donny hugged Lanie closer. He pulled off his helmet and kissed her rumpled, blonde, sweaty cheerleading hair.

I tugged at Casey’s hand again, agitated. He must have gotten the hint because the glow vanished. But then that angelic calm of his flowed through me, even though I didn’t want it to. Touching him was warm. It was a good warmth, like settling back into a beach chair at sunset. I could almost feel that invisible sun on my face. Everything faded comfortably. Even Maggie, blinking at Casey, was befuddled.

And then the world came rushing back. My brother slipped from my grasp and strode quickly to Donny and Lanie—who turned to Casey with so many emotions in her eyes I needed a calculator to keep up with them.

I held my breath. All the calmness I’d felt had become panic, now that Casey had let me go. He clapped Donny on the shoulder pads.

“Good job, Sneed,” he said. His lips twitched, but he kept a straight face. “You won the game for us. You’re the man.”

My shoulders sagged.

Okay, it wasn’t that funny. But it was sort of funny.

Then a voice to my left said, “Jenna.”

My heart stopped in mid-beat. Ryan Sloboda.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. He was sweaty. His hair was standing up every which way. There was a huge smudge of dirt on his cheek. But he was looking at me. Not at the coaches or Donny or anyone else. At me.

He grinned.

My mouth went dry. The Frito pie congealed in my belly.

“I’m going to call you, okay?” Ryan said. He was calm and matter-of-fact about it.

“Okay,” I told Ryan. My heart pranced around my chest like one of those show ponies.

My brother continued telling Donny Sneed what a hotshot player he was, while Lanie looked on, discombobulated. Why was her ex being nice? I had the same question, but screw it: Ryan Sloboda was going to call me!

Of course then Coach Collins stomped up and told Ryan he needed to get his ass to the field house. “You too, Sneed,” he added.

“Hey, Casey,” Ryan said to my brother as he hustled off. “Good game, huh?”

Casey’s face went blank. Then he frowned. Bad sign.

“I gotta pee,” Maggie announced, which definitely broke the already breaking mood. Casey told her we’d meet her at the car.