He doesn’t deny this statement.
In fact, all he does is call out right before I shut the passenger door. “Hey, Cartwright?”
“Yes, Riddick?” I can’t help my smile.
“If I do some investigating for you, I need you to do something for me,” he says, and one of my eyebrows skirts up. What can Marcus Riddick possibly need from me?
“Okay?”
He looks out the window, in the direction of the soccer field the team just had practice on. “Don’t come on Friday night. To the game.”
That snaps me out of any haze I’ve been in, and I’m incredulous. “What? Why not?”
“Because it’s going to be a bloodbath, and I don’t want you to see me at that level of not caring.”
I know that he’s making reference to when I told him he didn’t care about anything, but I don’t quite understandwhyhe is.
I want to delve into a speech about how not trying is an excuse to not fail, and honestly, it’s the saddest type of failure, but Marcus just agreed to do me a favor. And he knows too many of my secrets.
So I just say, voice steady, “Silvers are the defending champions, Marcus.”
“I know that,” he says, one hand on the wheel.
“Okay, well, you’re their interim leader. And Jason loves this team.”
“You’re telling me a lot about my own team,” he says, a small smile on his face. He rubs his chin. “I just think you should spare yourself the hassle this time. There’s no way…There’s just no way…”we win. I hear his unspoken words, and I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter.
I want to climb back into his truck and argue with him, but that seems a little much, so I just nod and shut the door. Head back to my own car.
And now, in addition to who my bully is, I also have questions about Marcus. Why does he so badly want me not to see him play? Maybe he’s going to throw the game. I don’t really know how you can do that with so many players on the pitch, but I’m sure it happens. Maybe I should contact Coach Kyle or something.
I decide against doing that, and then, for reasons I don’t understand, I spend the entire evening searching for used bookstores near and far that carry copies ofLittle Women. I do the same thing over the next couple of nights, and then on Thursday I compile a list and text it to Marcus. I’ve never texted him before, even though his number is saved in my phone.
He doesn’t respond at all until the next day when I send an additionalGood luck with the game!!!just before last period. I hope,implied in all the superfluous punctuation is the fact that this game is a really freaking big deal, and even if they don’t win, he has to at leasttry, and I’m definitely going to be there and…and…
All he says is:You promised.
So.
I guess I really am not going to the game. It feels like he’s implying that he won’t help me figure out my Instagram nemesis’s identity if I go to the game. It’s very unfair.
The only silver lining is that Amber and Mo decide not to go as well, so I invite them over for a girls’ night. (An actual girls’ night, meaning no Talon.) It’s a mini-intervention designed to ease some of whatever pressure has been causing their squabbling lately. And I decide it’s working when I’m washing the mask off my face and listening to my best friends laughing together in my living room as they try to learn a TikTok dance.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my pajama shorts, and I pull it out. There’s no live stream of the match, but I’ve been keeping up with the score online, holding my breath as the Silvers beat the Buffalos 3–1.
So it’s extremely surprising when my text is from none other than Marcus.
Thanks for the links. I’m going to check them out tonight.
I could act like a normal person and wait five minutes to text him back, butscrew it, I don’t.
Me:You’re welcome.
Me:I saw you won. Congrats! Seems like you really didn’t care.
A few minutes go by before he texts back.
I’m not hiding in the bathroom, watching my phone screen, waiting for his response. But I’m also notnotdoing that.
