Varsity series box set, p.13
Varsity: Series Box Set, page 13
“Don’t be,” he says, no bite or warning in his tone. His mouth forms a tight line, a forced smile meant to cover serious hurt and pain. He glances to the side of me and nods. “Glad you got your car back.”
I nod, keeping the details of the blown engine and my lack of transportation to myself for now. This isn’t the time for favors, and my ride is covered. Plus, I can tell Lucas wants to get whatever is waiting for him in the garage over with; I’d rather not have to look him in the eye.
This is a good place to leave things.
THIRTEEN
It was an impulsive decision. Almost as knee-jerk as when I blurted out Mrs. D’Angelo’s name in front of Lucas’s dad. Whatever it was that made me go through with it, when I walked into school on Tuesday morning after Abby drove me in, I went straight to the office and begged my counselor to put me in an independent study for my physics credit. As much as I want to have forced interactions with Lucas every day, I haven’t wanted them for the right reasons. Starting every morning like that, so negative and contentious, won’t get either of us anywhere healthy. I might not see much of him anymore, but I’d rather have rare, meaningful interactions that he chooses to be present for than ones where we show up for attendance.
I easily got my mom to buy off on the plan. I’m good at physics, and I did most of the work my junior year in other ways. I just need the official credit. I took advantage of my mom being busy and distracted, trying to get out of the house with arms full of gear and her phone on speaker while she spoke with her broker about the studio space she’s renting in Old Town.
I miss our angsty morning battles—little pushes and shoves and biting comments—but the void is the kind a druggie has when going through withdrawal. Maybe that’s why I agreed to the game tonight—a little taste of Lucas from a safe distance.
Controlled abuse.
As the fourth quarter ticks down, I don’t feel any giddiness at all over the sight of him. We’re down by two touchdowns. I’m not much of an optimist, but the small fraction of me that is knows that even the great Lucas Fuller can’t close that gap against Pinewood Crest in less than two minutes. Their defense is rabid, borderline on sportsmanship, and twice the size of our offensive line. Lucas has been sacked three times this half, two the first half. His dad left at the end of the third, forcing his mom to leave her spot in the away stands so he could drive them home. He didn’t even stand during the game like he normally does. He was disappointed, and he wanted to make sure anyone looking knew he was not proud of his son’s performance.
As if anyone gives two shits what middle-aged Todd Fuller thinks.
“Hey guys, the party got moved to Sammy’s garage. I’m still in if you are,” Abby says, glancing over her shoulder at me with puppy eyes. I sigh and picture my evening, sitting on some metal chair in a garage while people drink and play beer pong.
“I’m down.”
“Me, too.”
Lola and Naomi sell me out quickly. I laugh under my breath and close my eyes as I lift my shoulders.
“Fine,” I say in one long breath.
“You don’t have to,” Abby says, and I open my gaze on her, expecting to see the opposite message in her expression. She seems genuine.
“Are you sure?” I tilt my head, waiting for her to smack my leg and tell me to get my ass to the party.
“Yeah, I mean it’s Sammy’s garage. It’s not an epic moment.” I’m not sure whether she classifies it that way to let me off the hook or she’s strategically saving up my party attendance requirements for better, bigger blowouts ahead. Regardless, I’m thankful for the break.
“Ohhhh!” The collective moan in the small crowd left on our side sends my attention back to the field, just in time to catch Lucas pulling himself to his knees.
“Line isn’t doing their job tonight,” some old man commentates behind me.
“Bullshit. QB’s head isn’t in this one. Sucks to lose to them, too. We might not make playoffs because of this.” I recognize the second voice as Mr. D’Angelo. He doesn’t make it to many games because his work puts him out of the state a lot. Tory mentioned something about him getting home for this one, though. At least his son looked good tonight, as good as anyone can look losing twenty-one to seven.
The girls stand, straightening their jeans on their hips and putting on their mini backpacks to leave before the rest of the home crowd. I kinda want to see this game to the very end, though. Not because of optimism, but because nobody here is in Lucas’s corner. I feel . . . obligated, I guess?
“June, you ready?” Abby is already a few steps down the bleachers. I haven’t even stood.
“Can I meet you guys at the car? I want to see the end.”
My friend scrunches her face as if I just told her I’d like to eat a cup of ass soup.
“I told Tory I’d stay,” I say, playing guilty.
Her eyes narrow.
“That thing still just a rumor, June?” She’s only half teasing, I can tell by the slight slant of her head.
“Yes, Abby.” My response is stern enough for her to stop prying, and over her shoulder she tells me to hurry while she and the girls leave the sparse away stands.
Lucas won’t even get in the game again. The clock is under a minute, and the other team is just burning the seconds. He’s alone on the opposite end of the action, helmet off and dangling from a weary right arm, a towel tucked in the back of his pants on the left side. He’s staring at the clock instead of his defense, just hoping it all ends. None of this is fun for him; I can tell. I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only one who can.
Both teams crowd the field before all the seconds tick down, and Lucas is last to walk through the Eagles line and shake hands with the other squad. Even his coaches are ahead of him, avoiding him rather than getting angry. Not that the outcome of this game rests squarely on his shoulders, or that the failures were completely his fault. Maybe everyone here has just gotten used to him carrying them. When talent runs thin, Lucas plays harder to make up the difference. He’s always been that way. Always can be exhausting.
I wait until our line of players filters toward the end zone before I climb from the stands. I’m the lone person on this side, a standout. I walk around the track on the outside of the fence while the team crosses the field on their way to the bus. When I reach the gate, I have to wait for them to exit, not wanting to dart through the horde of pissed off teenaged boys and grown men who act like them. I catch Tory’s eye and he lifts his chin in acknowledgement, the strap of his mouthpiece dangling from his lips as he chews on it. Most of the guys wear the same expression, defeat haunting their eyes, fear draining the color from their cheeks. They’re going to get their asses chewed in that bus for the thirty-minute drive home, and that lecture . . . it matters to a lot of them. Not all of them, though.
Clearly not one of them.
Lucas wears his helmet balanced atop his head, the face mask not pulled down but resting against his forehead. He’s chewing at his plastic mouthpiece with such a vice grip that it’s become malformed, the gnawed remnants hanging from his mouth. We’re close enough to touch as he approaches the gate.
I form fists with the long sleeves of my Eagles hoodie and hold my breath, hoping it’s okay that I’m even here. His gaze flits toward me for a beat as he passes, just long enough for the muddied blue to reach inside my heart and spear it just a little.
I wait for the field crew to zip through with their cart, mostly to buy time and distance between the team and me—between Lucas and me. I spot Abby’s car near the exit, pulled up close to the curb, and I jog toward her before she honks and draws attention to me. I lost the front seat to Naomi, so I round the car and climb into the seat behind Abby. I catch her eyes on mine in her rearview mirror while I buckle up, and there’s an understanding in them that I should have known would be there. She knows why I stayed, same way she knows why I would never date Tory D’Angelo. My heart is still loyal to Lucas Fuller, no matter how much of an asshole he can be.
Our exchange is wordless, and I’m strategically quiet for the ride home, making sure to sing along with the radio and give my opinion on things when it’s easy. I speak up just enough to not make anyone question where my mind is, but my mind is long gone. It’s at home, in the front seat of a rusted-out Buick, while I stare up at the window of the boy I once knew so well.
When Abby drops me off at my house, I make her promise to call me for a ride home from the party. My mom is home, which means the van is mine. It would have been the perfect night for me to play designated driver, but I really don’t want to be at a party. I want to be right here, sitting in this dirty seat that I swore I’d never get in again the last time Lucas found me here.
Maybe I knew deep down he would come. A part of me surely hoped for it. I’ve been sitting out here for about an hour. I expected it to take time for the team to make the trip home, for him to shower and change, and to get out of going to a party he doesn’t want to be at either.
His hair is damp and falling over his eyes as he weaves through the tall weeds and the abandoned tires that will never hold air. Nicolas Mabee’s Junkyard, that’s what this place is. Fitting that I’m out here, too, among my dad’s leftover, forgotten treasures.
The door pops when he opens it, the palm print from the last time he sat here waiting to greet him. He leaves the door open but sits with both legs inside. I roll down the window on my side as far as it will go, which is only inches, but it lets a cross breeze flow through the cab, clearing out some of the mustiness.
I’m stuck on the faintness of his freckles across the bridge of his nose. I get lost in them, admiring quietly while he stares straight ahead into whatever picture his mind is conjuring. We sit like this for long minutes, hiding from expectations, from our past, from our futures—from our parents. I’d be content if this quiet lasted for hours, for it to be all he needs before he leaves the car and goes back to his life inside that house. But the outside world doesn’t want anything I do.
His phone blares out the Kanye song he was listening to the night I walked in on him with Ava. He leans to the side to pull his phone from his pocket, checks the screen, and quickly dismisses the call. The alert sounds again the second he tucks his phone away, so this time he powers it off and tosses it on the filthy dashboard. He leans forward and rubs both palms over his face, then into his hair.
Through it all, I don’t talk. I’ll wait as long as he needs to find his words, and if he never finds them, I’ll be his companion for this soothing bit of silence.
His hands clasp in front of him as he leans forward and rests his weight on the dash. His body inflates with a deep breath, spilling out through his nose.
“I want to go to MIT.” He nods, acknowledging his wishes out loud.
“That’s amazing.” I hope that’s the answer he wants to hear. His head falls forward, resting on his hands, and he rolls it side to side as he kicks at the ripped-up flooring beneath his feet.
“It is, isn’t it?” He rolls his head to the side until our eyes meet. A smile flashes on his lips, a defeated remnant of pride.
His palms flatten and he shifts his weight so his cheek rests on his folded hands and arms, his eyes blinking slowly as he stares at me. I feel this overwhelming pressure to give him some sort of solution.
“I got an offer from Tennessee,” he continues.
I nod, remembering the conversation I overheard him have with Mr. Newsome.
“That’s awesome, too.” This time, my response makes him laugh. He leans back and balls his fists to his eyes, a semi-maniacal laugh slipping into a more desperate one.
“You’re right. It is.” His hands fall into his lap, and I’m caught on the dirt and tape that still mar his fingers.
“What do you want?” My gaze moves back up to his, and everything behind it is so lost. He shakes his head while he turns to the side, twisting so his body faces me.
“Does that matter?” he says, a quick lift of his shoulders.
“It should,” I answer. Another laugh punches through his chest.
I look down to the shifter between us, the marble ball on top of the stick the one thing my dad put new in this car before he took off. I wonder if it’s even worth anything. I grab it in my palm and twist until it gives, unscrewing it until it’s finally just a stone ball with a screw-hole in it. I toss it in my hand a few times, testing the weight, then I hold it out for Lucas to take.
He squints a little, leaning closer before taking it from me. Our fingers touch slightly, and it’s everything to me. Somehow, I steady myself enough to take in the way his lashes shadow his eyes, blinking as he studies my stupid gift.
“Thanks. I always wanted this thing,” he says.
“I know,” I say, chuckling.
My dad used to yell at him for taking this ornament off the car and throwing it around the yard. Lucas even tossed it in his pool once and made me dive in to get it back.
“It’s yours now,” I say, though my worst self is waiting in the wings to bite me. “Or you could give it to Ava.”
He doesn’t glance up at my comment, and I’m glad. I wish I could take it back. I hate that I said it. I know it was her who called. She’s probably burning up his phone while it’s powered down, leaving angry messages and threats for me. I’m probably giving her dislike for me too much credit; I doubt I take up that much of her headspace.
“Why’d you leave physics?” He still hasn’t looked up, instead keeping his focus on the shiny ball in his palm. Oh, how I wish I could look away from him.
“Seemed it was for the best.” I give him the truth, and I don’t really have to dive into the details. He knows how we’ve been behaving. We haven’t been very good to each other, not for a very long time.
“Yeah,” he breathes out.
He tosses the ball in his palm a few times, then lines it up with the screw sticking out of the top of the shifter. He turns it, tightening it back into place.
“I don’t really want it,” he says, finally glancing in my direction. An amused curve plays at one side of his lips. “I just liked that it pissed your dad off.”
We both laugh.
“It did,” I recall.
His gaze lingers, but rather than turning mine away, I spend it on his every facial feature—the permanent crease that’s etched into the corners of his mouth from his smile, the tiny scar that splits his right eyebrow from where he hit his head on the monkey bars and needed stitches, and the way his right ear sticks out a little more than his left.
“Ava’s not my girlfriend, just so you know.”
His words slam into my chest, but I mask my reaction, drawing in a long breath through my nose to keep my heart at bay.
“She seems like your girlfriend,” I say, not even sure why. Maybe I just need to be sure of some things.
“She’s not,” he answers quick. “She’s just . . .” His chest fills with a heavy breath and guilt taints his eyes, pulling the corners down along with the edges of his mouth. “She’s just this mistake I make sometimes.”
I shake my head, and his face puzzles.
“She’s not a mistake,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t understand, and I don’t entirely either, but there’s something behind that word that needs fixing.
“I might not like her very much, but no girl deserves to be labeled a mistake. She’s a lot of things, but mistake isn’t one of them. Your moments with her had purpose, even if they were brief and not love. Your actions can be a mistake, but not the person.” My eyes tear at my own words. I don’t know that I’ve ever been this vulnerable, not even with Lucas. I run my arm over my face and sniffle.
“Okay,” he says, a gentle laugh seeping through.
“Okay,” I repeat.
Every light in his back yard flicks on at once, and we both turn our heads, startled by it. His dad’s figure moves from one end of the patio to the other.
“He’s probably looking for me,” he says.
“Let him,” I say, my bravado amusing him.
“I wish I could, but—”
“But he’s the reason you can’t go to MIT?” I kinda knew in my gut, and when his gaze shifts to mine, he confirms it.
“He went to Tennessee, and me and football—”
“You’re living his dream,” I fill in. He nods, every bit of joy slipping from his eyes and the lift in his cheeks. His dad is an anchor that is drowning him. I should tell him the truth, set him free. If only there were a way it wouldn’t destroy his family like it did mine.
“He’ll come around,” I say, my words the push he needs to exit the car and abandon our conversation.
“Doubtful,” he says, both palms on the roof of the car as he dips his head into my view. I can feel the part of him that wants to stay here screaming from behind his eyes. Those damn expectations, though—the pull is strong.
“Thanks, June.” He raps on the top of the car once then backs away, closing the door. I wait until he disappears through the thick brush and weeds, then I roll the window up and leave the driver’s side. I can hear his father’s voice through the night air. He isn’t shouting, but he’s also not being a father. He’s lecturing, reprograming, willing Lucas to love all the things he wants him to. People don’t work like that, though.
If they did, I would have willed Lucas to love me a long time ago.
By the time I get inside, my mom isn’t around; she probably went upstairs. I shut off the lights downstairs, and gather up the documents she left scattered on the counter. There are a few printout photos of a storefront, so I carry them over to the faint night light glowing near the stove and picture her space being there. It’s the perfect size, with an old-fashioned awning over a huge window and green door. The inside is empty except for the black and white checkered tiles and a single barber’s chair in the middle. I’m sure she’ll have to redo the inside, but I kind of hope that chair sticks around.
I leave the photos on the stack of forms and round the corner, racing up the stairs two at a time because I don’t like the dark. My mom is asleep sideways on her bed, still wearing her jeans and the business blazer she says makes her look professional. I don’t want to disturb her, so I turn her light off and close her door so she has quiet. I’ll make sure she’s up when I leave for work in the morning.
