“You’re great at soccer. Everyone likes you—like seriously not one person has a bad thing to say about you. It’s very annoying.”
Jason was biting his lower lip, focusing hard on the road. “What else?”
“What, that’s not enough for you?” I joked. I didn’t think hewasactuallyinsecure, so I didn’t pick out my words carefully like I might have otherwise. “I like that you’re really going places. Most high school boys are obsessed with the here and now, but you know what really matters. We both do. Oh! And you’re a great captain. Leadership skills unmatched.”
“A great captain,” he repeated. “I guess there’s a consensus then. Everyone likes me for the same reason.”
“It’s called universal appeal,” I told him.
I’m practically bouncing on my toes now with anticipation as I try to share the memory with Marcus, but I notice that he isn’t even listening. He has stuck his head between the people in front of us, his face uncomfortably close to both of theirs as he tries to read their tickets.
“Marcus!” I hiss. I tug on the back of his shirt. “Do you know what’s creepy? People who stand too close in line.”
“Relax,” he says, all ease. “I was checking what tickets they need to get in. God, I love being invisible.”
“It feels wrong to go in without paying,” I say. “Or at least waiting in line.”
But Marcus is already weaving his way to the front.
“Spare me the lecture, Cartwright. There’s no rules in dreams.”
I huff. “And you would know because?”
But of course, he’s right. The ticketer doesn’t blink as we push through the line into the carnival. The security guard does nothing as we walk past him.
It feels like with this many people all clumped together, there should be more bumping elbows and stepping on toes and unreciprocatedexcuse mes, but as always, nobody feels a thing as wewalk through them. There are no jolts, no particles clashing. Just me and Marcus, breaking the laws of matter.
It suddenly feels exhilarating, what Marcus said—being totally invisible, immaterial, unseen. I bulldoze right through scores of people, running and skipping and jumping. Euphoric for some reason.
Marcus is grinning when he catches up to me. “Having fun?”
“Have you ever felt like you could do absolutely anything you want and not have a single person judge you? Felt like you don’t have to answer to anyone even if you make a mistake or say or do something stupid?”
“I have,” Marcus says, because hedoesn’tcare what people think.
“I haven’t,” I admit. “I’m always worried. Worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, seeming stupid, rude, unfriendly, ungrateful. There is always,alwayssomething to think about.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”
I give him a skeptical look.
“Okay, listen, I’m not going to pretend that you can do whatever you want and not have to pay the consequences. That’s just unrealistic. And people are going to judge you—that’s a fact of life. But you can control how much energy you give their judgment. You can let it affect you, or you can let it roll off you.”
“You didn’t,” I point out. “The day you played the Buffalos.”
Marcus sighs. “That’s different. A lot of people were counting on me.”
My face tells him I’m not buying it.
“Okay, fine. I did care. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of…everyone,” Marcus says, cheeks turning pink.Everyonesounds suspiciously likeyou. But why does my opinion of him matter at all?
“Oh, look atthis,” Marcus says, breaking our silence and helping himself to some random guy’s fries, dipping a couple in a plate of ketchup.
I make a face. “You’re going to eat a stranger’s food?”
“Pretty much,” he says with zero shame. “That okay with you?”
“I might be judging,” I tease.
