Shuffle, Repeat Page 7

  I know, I know.

  High praise, indeed.

  • • •

  “Frankly, I’m shocked,” Shaun tells me as we push our way through the main lobby.

  “Stop it. It’s not that shocking.”

  “ ‘Inane,’ you’ve called them.” He holds open one of the doors for me to walk through. “ ‘Ludicrous.’ ‘Gratuitous.’ ”

  “All right, all right. So I haven’t always been awash in compliments. Cut me some slack.”

  “ ‘A parade of hormonal insecurity swathed in violence and unnecessary ceremony.’ ” Shaun says it with air quotes and all.

  “A girl’s allowed to change her mind,” I tell him. “Especially about something as insubstantial as football. Will you be my date on Friday?”

  Shaun makes a big show of considering it, but of course he says yes. “Only because Kirk’s not around.”

  “How’s that going, anyway?” We round the corner of the school and head toward the parking lot. “Have you talked to him?”

  “Only every day,” Shaun says. “I don’t screw around when I’m in love.”

  After that, I go quiet.

  I have a new tactic to allay the agony of Oliver’s horrendous music: conversation. I’ve discovered that if we talk on the way to school, he turns the music down low, so I can barely hear the atrocity (two songs to my one that is currently on the playlist).

  “You’re actually nervous?” I ask in response to his comment. “I thought you people lived for Friday nights.”

  “We people do,” he says, emphasizing to let me know what he thinks of my painting all athletes with the same brush.

  But let’s be honest: the brush fits.

  “It’s still a lot of pressure,” Oliver explains. “If you fumble or something, there are literally hundreds of people watching.”

  “Yeah, but if you score a home run—”

  “Touchdown.”

  “—then everyone cheers.”

  “That part isn’t so bad.” Oliver changes topic. “Do you know our moms are going out tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. There’s a new restaurant they want to try.”

  “Do you think they talk about us?”

  That makes me laugh. “God, what else would they have to talk about?”

  “Well, I’m sure your mother is a font of fascinating debate. My mom on the other hand…I don’t know. Meat loaf recipes? The original Kinkade my dad bought her?”

  “Your dad bought her a mixer?”

  “That’s a KitchenAid. Kinkade is an artist.”

  “Oh.” It’s a little embarrassing. After all, my mother is an artist, too. I should know these things. Also, Oliver has this big smile on his face because he’s oh so amused at my lack of knowledge about the Fancy Ways of life.

  Oliver sees my look. He reaches over and pats my leg. “Don’t worry. You’re cooler for not knowing Kinkade. Strip malls carry his work in bulk. Your mom’s art is authentic. No mass productions, no marketing campaigns. I like her stuff.”

  “What do you know about my mom’s work?”

  “You do realize we’ve known each other since birth, right?”

  “I guess. I just…” I stop and think about it. I suppose I do know quite a bit about Oliver’s family. His mom, Marley, is my mom’s best friend. His father, Bryant, is a developer of many gated communities, including fancy-schmancy Flaggstone Lakes, where they all live. His older brother, Owen, is now in college in North Carolina.

  “What?” Oliver asks.

  “I’m surprised you like my mom’s art,” I tell him. “Especially given your terrible taste in music.”

  • • •

  Shaun wends his hatchback through throngs of students wielding giant foam fingers and parents carrying hand-painted signs. We find a parking space and he turns to me with a face that is all kinds of serious. “You love me, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Here’s the thing. I’m different at football games than I am with you and Darbs and Lily.”

  “I know, I know. You’re a rainbow.”

  “Such a rainbow.” Shaun pulls off his hat to reveal a giant mop of red-and-blue hair.

  I gawk at him. It’s supremely hideous. “Please tell me that’s a wig.”

  “It’s a wig. Isn’t it fantastic?”

  It takes me a second to find the words. “It definitely shows school spirit.”

  “Exactly,” says Shaun. “On Friday nights, I have school spirit.”

  I look down at my own outfit: black tunic over leggings, high-top Chucks. Decidedly not spirited. “I can live with that.”

  At the gate, a twenty-something security guard rifles through my messenger bag. “What are you looking for?” I ask him.

  “Drugs. Booze.”

  “I don’t have either of those.”

  “Cool.” He waves me through.

  Shaun and I have to walk along the track to get to the bleachers. It’s much louder and more crowded than I ever would have guessed. The marching band is already in their section, playing what I assume is a fight song. Ainsley and the other cheerleaders are out in front, waving and kicking and bouncing. We thread our way through packs of young kids eating hot dogs and parents carrying vinyl seat cushions and students vibrating with pep and anticipation. Everything smells like popcorn.

  I let Shaun lead me to a seat in the center of the bleachers. “Wow, so this is what the world looks like from here,” I say to him, and he elbows me in the ribs.

  “Okay, turn to me,” he orders. I do and his eyes rove over my face for several seconds. He looks very intent. “I’m seeing hearts.”

  “What?” If Shaun is turning straight or something, we are going to have to retool how our friendship works.

  “I’m seeing balloons. I’m seeing a delicate bird stretching its wings to leap from a nest.”

  “I’m seeing a crazy person. What are you talking about?”

  “The work of art that I’m going to paint on your face.” Shaun whips out a pack of fat, oily crayons. “You’re here, so be here already.”

  I open my mouth to say no—or more likely, hell no—but then I pause. Something about the trumpets and the cheerleaders’ skirts and the stale popcorn in the air makes me reconsider. Below, Oliver is about to put himself out there in front of all the world to see his triumph or his defeat. Would it kill me to show a little support?

  “No hearts,” I tell Shaun. “No balloons, and definitely no delicate birds.” I point to my right cheek. “Go.” I point to my left cheek. “Robins.”

  A smile blossoms across Shaun’s face. “That’s my girl. Blue or red?”

  “Surprise me.”

  • • •

  It’s somewhere in the middle of the third quarter and we’re tied with Lake Erie High. I’ve been able to figure out which one is Oliver (mostly because he told me he’d have a number 2 emblazoned across his back) and have watched him do all sorts of running and catching. Two out of our four touchdowns were made by him, to much screaming and adulation from our side of the field. The marching band show at intermission (“halftime,” Shaun corrected me) was loud and precise and clap-worthy, and it’s been surprisingly interesting to watch the cheerleaders hop and scream and fling each other into the air. I’m wearing Shaun’s letterman jacket (varsity tennis), because it’s gotten chilly, and even that makes it feel like I’m at a weird, fun costume party.

  There’s no way around it: I’m having a great time.

  Since I still don’t really understand what’s happening on the field, it doesn’t occur to me to wait until the end of a play to admit this all to Shaun. I tug on his sweatshirt and he tilts toward me, his eyes still on the game. Everyone in the bleachers is chanting and stomping and clapping, so I bring my mouth up to Shaun’s ear. “This is fun!” I yell, and pull back to see his reaction.

  Except he’s not turning to give me one of his wide, happy smiles. Instead, he’s gasping and his hand is at his chest, squeezed in a fist.

&
nbsp; In that moment, I realize that all around us, in every row, all the students and parents and little kids have also retreated into shocked silence. I whip my gaze to the field and zero in on the center, where one of the players lies in a crumpled heap while people run toward him from every direction.

  Oliver.

  That’s when I gasp into the silent air, seconds later than everyone else. That’s when both my hands fly to my mouth and I lurch to my feet. I’m not sure what my plan is—to run down there or call 911 or something—but before I can do it, there’s a death grip on my left elbow. Shaun pulls me back to the seat and tucks an arm around my waist. “Easy,” he murmurs, and makes a fast, subtle gesture with one knuckle.

  I follow his gaze to where Ainsley stands amid a protective circle of cheerleaders. She’s tense, her arms wrapped around herself, watching the people clustered around Oliver. One of Ainsley’s friends rubs small circles on her back.

  “Right,” I say to Shaun.

  “Right,” he says.

  And then the awfulness is over, because Oliver is lifting his head; he’s slowly sitting; he’s shaking off assistance; he’s pulling himself upright and waving to our side of the field, where the bleachers erupt into a stomping, screaming explosion of celebration. I feel like crying but I don’t, because below, Ainsley already is doing that. Instead, I smile and I clap and I let my tears flow out of her eyes.

  That’s where they belong.

  • • •

  “I didn’t realize,” says Shaun as we stand around by the south entrance of the field, waiting for Oliver and Ainsley.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Shaun gazes at me, then leans over and kisses the top of my head. “Never mind.”

  • • •

  The party is at a farm out near Dexter. Ainsley said it’s the property of Theo’s cousin, but then I heard Zoe tell someone the land belongs to the family of Cal Turman, who graduated last year, so who knows? Getting here was the first time I’ve ever ridden in the backseat of the behemoth, the floor of which is just as littered with discarded water bottles and trash as anyone would think. Right after the game, Ainsley was really worried about Oliver driving after his injury, but she appears to have been reassured, since now she and her posse are pounding beers beside a raging fire in the middle of nowhere.

  Shaun and I sit on a wide stump together, sharing a beer from the keg and watching several dozen of our fellow students flirt and drink and slip off into the shadows to make out.

  “Do you always come to these?” I ask Shaun.

  “Bonfires are only for the first game of the season,” he tells me. “I came last year, but it was on a different farm.”

  We sit in silence for a little while, both of us taking only tiny sips from the cup. Shaun knows he’ll have to drive home after Oliver returns us to school, and I don’t want to pee in a cornfield. Hence the moderation.

  Shaun gives me a gentle bump with his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  He heaves a deep sigh. “I miss Kirk.”

  Shaun drops his head onto my shoulder and I stroke his thick black hair. “I know,” I tell him, even though I don’t. When Itch was gone over the summer, I missed him being around, but I didn’t miss him, if that makes any sense. It seems devastating to have your heart so completely undone for a single person. If they screw up, if they don’t feel the same, if their life is too busy or too complicated or too far away to fit you into it, something inside you breaks. Even when it heals, there are scars.

  There are always scars.

  No thank you.

  Someone shows up with a portable speaker and pop music fills the smoky night air. There’s a sudden cheerleader stampede toward the patch of open dirt substituting as a dance floor.

  I check out Oliver and Theo, who stand off to the side, watching the girls gyrate and twirl. Theo points to first one and then another, making comments I can’t hear. Oliver smiles.

  I can only imagine.

  I nudge Shaun’s head off my shoulder to ask if he thinks we can find an earlier ride home with someone, but I never ask the question, because he’s beaming at me with this big, sappy grin.

  “What?”

  “Tell me you won’t miss this.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the party. “This is what we’ll look back on when we’re old and boring and sedentary.”

  I am about to say something about perception and hindsight when we hear my name yelled from the dance zone. It’s Ainsley. She’s pointing straight at me.

  “I don’t suppose I have a choice in this matter, do I?” I ask Shaun.

  “Nope.” He shoves me up from our stump. “Life is easier when you acquiesce.”

  Ainsley calls my name again. I shrug off Shaun’s letter jacket and drop it onto his lap before pasting on a big smile and heading toward the dancers with as much buoyancy as I can muster. When I reach Ainsley, she holds out a hand toward me. “Phone.”

  “There’s no reception,” I tell her, and she cracks up.

  “No, silly. Next song up on your phone is what we dance to.”

  No one told me about this delightful tradition. I glance back at Shaun but he’s looking moody and tracing the rim of our plastic cup with one finger, no doubt thinking about Kirk.

  Shit.

  “Come on,” says Ainsley, her hand still open and out.

  “You’re not going to like my music,” I tell her, sliding my phone from a pocket and turning it over.

  “Who do you listen to? Justin Bieber?” she teases.

  If only.

  I watch—hating my life—as Ainsley struts to the speaker. The current song abruptly cuts off. Cheerleaders pause mid-bounce with wails of protest. The night suddenly feels very thick and dark.

  Ainsley throws an arm up to the crowd. “June Rafferty for music roulette!” she screams. There’s an expectant hush as she plugs in my phone and touches the screen. I scroll through songs in my brain, trying to figure out the worst-case scenario. Dead Kennedys? The Sisters of Mercy? Maybe I’ll get lucky and Ainsley will hit on a Cure song everyone knows.

  I’m frozen somewhere between defiance and panic when I see movement from the edge of the dance floor. It’s Oliver, headed toward Ainsley with determination etched across his face. But before he reaches her, drumbeats hit the air, followed by guitar chords. They’re exuberant and light, like the cheerleaders.

  The group hesitates as they all look to their leader. Ainsley’s dark eyebrows wing together in a frown. She stalks toward me. “Who is this?” she demands.

  I consider telling her it’s Bieber, just to see if she’ll buy it, but I don’t want to press my luck when stranded in a nest of jocks.

  “Pansy Division.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Queercore punk out of San Francisco.”

  There’s a pause during which it could go either way, but then good old P.D. gets to the chorus, specifically the “Sex! Sex! Sex! Sex!” line, and Ainsley’s lips turn up in appreciation. “I love it!” she shouts, and grabs my wrist, careening us both into the center of the crowd.

  I catch a flash glimpse of Oliver at the edge, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and watching. But before I can figure out what he’s doing or thinking, I’ve been launched into the lunacy. The bouncing escalates, the screaming intensifies, and against all odds…I’m a part of it.

  Just like that, I’m in.

  • • •

  Oliver makes Ainsley trade seats with Shaun for the ride home so I can hold her hair back if she pukes out the window. “That’s a girl job,” Shaun says from the front passenger seat.

  “There are no such things,” I tell him automatically.

  Luckily for me (and the behemoth’s paint job), Ainsley isn’t pukey at all. In fact, she’s rather the opposite. “I never knew you were so cool!” she coos into my ear, her arms flung around my torso. “I love you! Oliver, I love her!”

  “Awesome.” Oliver meets my eyes i
n the rearview mirror. He grins at me and shakes his head. I grin back before giving Ainsley a return hug.

  “I love you, too,” I assure her.

  “We are going to be such good friends.”

  I pat her arm. “Totally.”

  A part of me even means it.

  The behemoth takes off. I know it’s pointless to try to catch it, but I try anyway, racing all the way down the driveway and into the street, waving my arms and screaming.

  It’s the only way I’m going to find out the truth.

  I chase it for a couple houses’ worth of road before slowing to a stop, my breath coming in short gasps. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears covering my face….

  And miraculously, ahead of me, the behemoth also stops. I drop my hands to my knees, trying to catch my breath as the big car makes a slow U-turn and comes back for me.

  It’s coming back with answers. Answers that I already know will break my heart.

  When the alarm on my phone chirps, I open my eyes to find Mom looming over my bed. I squeal, which startles her enough that she also squeals, and then it takes me a minute to sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes before I can figure out what’s going on. Mom—already dressed to teach—is holding a plate of pancakes. They’re adorned with fresh strawberries in the shape of the number seventeen, and there’s a lit candle in the center.

  “Thanks.” I blow out the candle. “What are the chances you made coffee, too?”

  “Pretty good,” says Mom, and she hugs me.

  • • •

  “Wait, what?” says Oliver as he pulls out of my driveway. “How are you not eighteen?”

  “You know I have to explain this to someone at least once a year, right?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “When Dad left for New York and Mom had to go back to work, everyone suddenly noticed that preschool costs money but kindergarten is free. I took some IQ tests and must have done okay, because they went ahead and started me early.”

  “So you were only four when we got married on the playground?”

  I cringe. “You remember that?”

  “God, I’m a pedophile!” he says dramatically, clapping a palm to his forehead. He’s trying to be funny, but I’m embarrassed. As far as I’m concerned, our kindergarten marriage has always been this mildly shameful thing, a very tiny elephant in the room. I think it’s because—technically speaking—it was my very first kiss, and I didn’t have another one until eighth grade, when Will Michaels and I made out in the sports shed on a dare. It was sweet but sloppy and—although I have a nostalgic fondness for Will to this day—kissing wasn’t something I felt like trying again for another year.