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Here we go…
Friday night lights were usually the highlight of my week, back when nothing mattered but the size and color of the ribbon in my hair. Something in the air was different that evening.
Something wicked this way blows.
“Hi Olivia. What’s got your bloomers in a bunch this time?” Please, dear God, let it be a bumblebee.
“I bet Chase would like to find out,” she said with a smile that made me want to knock all of her teeth out. Olivia and I had never really been friendly. Not since she told Chase, my neighbor and secret crush, that I was in love with him. Way to keep a secret, Olivia! Not that it mattered much to Chase. He was more focused on football than girls. Lucky for me, my dad was the best football couch around.
“You’d have to catch up to him to find out.” I let my eyes drop to her waist. She wasn’t overweight, but it wouldn’t hurt if she laid off the chicken nuggets a bit. “He’s pretty fast and you’re… Well. Petty.”
A buzzer rang, reminding the crowd it was time for the pregame show to start.
“Spoiled little brat.” Olivia’s hands dropped to her sides, forming into tight balls.
If I could have guessed what came next, maybe I would have acted differently. Maybe I wouldn’t have walked in her direction at all. Or, perhaps, I would have actually broken her jaw when I wanted to.
She leaned back, puckered her lips, and spit at my face. In slow motion, a giant wad of gum went hurdling through the air. Time stood still. I closed my eyes, hoping, praying that the gum wouldn’t land on my face. It didn’t. Instead, it lodged right into my perfectly curled ponytail.
I’m not sure which was worse. Her dirty smirk or the fact she spit gum on me.
Whatever.
She doesn’t deserve to watch me crumble.
“Hasn’t your mom taught you its unladylike to spit?” It was a low-ball jab, even for me. “Oops. I Forgot. She died, didn’t she? Well, guess you’ll never learn what it’s like to be a true lady.” I added a curtsy for some extra flare.
I’m going to hell.
With a little wink, I spun on my heel and walked across the sidelines to the player’s bench. Normally, being this close to the turf was magical. It was usually exciting being this close to all the action. Watching the players stretch, making sure the water jugs were full, hearing the coaches make last minute adjustments to plays… it all made my heart race.
Not today. Something was definitely off.
The band played the national anthem. Everyone in the stadium stood and placed their hands on their heart. With each beat of the drum, I grew more and more upset. The trumpets blared and anger mixed with regret. I shouldn’t have been so mean to Olivia. Dad would have reminded me to walk away. Bouncing from frustration to rage to remorse with each melody of the song, a war of emotions took over my mind and my heart.
It was all too much for me to keep bottled inside.
The players tore through the giant paper sign the cheer coach painted while she was supposed to be teaching Spanish. I sent a secret prayer that Olivia would fall from her stunt position. Then I instantly wished I hadn’t. What kind of person prays for someone to get hurt?
“Dad!” I called to the person I needed most. If anyone could calm me down, it was him. There was gum in my hair, tears on my cheeks and an ache in my chest that wouldn’t go away. At only twelve years old, my life was falling apart.
“Johnson, they’re going to start with a blitz. Be ready. Perkins, keep your head in the game.” He tapped the boys’ helmets as they ran onto the field.
“Dad! I need to talk to you!” I yelled. He didn’t even flinch. The chatter amongst the players surrounding me grew louder.
Can he even hear me?
The players on the field sunk down into their offensive stance. Our best quarterback lined up in the shotgun position.
“Dad!”
“Not now, honey. Take a seat on the bench.” The QB clapped to begin the play.
“It can’t wait.” My screams didn’t stand a chance against all the clanking of helmets, cheering fans, and rowdy players.
The ref blew his whistle, signaling the end of the play. Dad’s precious team took a few rushing yards. Not a major play though. With a tiny break before the next play, I tapped dad’s shoulder. “Dad!”
“Meghan Grace Foster, I am working. Go find a place to take a break. We will talk about whatever is bother you after the game.” His famous stern “get your shit together face,” wasn’t directed at me very often. I knew he wouldn’t budge.
