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I shook off the comparison, shifting in my seat.
I forced my eyes down at the homework sheet we were working through, at Connor’s scrawling handwriting. The familiar equations blinked back at me, on a little bit of a slant from how he wrote it. I brushed my thumb along the graphite, smudging it a little.
“What do you do for fun?”
The array of supplies around us caught my attention, and I fixated on where his calculator was by his elbow. “I do Calculus worksheets sometimes. Mrs. Diego finds me hard problems on the internet to solve. And I watch TV.” I only tacked on the last point so he didn’t make fun of me, but embarrassment crawled over me for being honest. Like I should’ve said I liked painting like Mom and Jozie or building stuff like Dad. Something…cooler. “How about you? What do you do for fun?”
“I haven’t really had time for fun lately. Go to school, go to football practice, tutor with you, finish up the rest of my homework, and then bed.” He opened his eyes to little slivers. “And then do it again the next day.”
“Should I get out my tiny violin?”
A spark of triumph burst through me when Connor grinned. “You’re ruthless, you know. You weren’t even going to pretend to pity me.”
It wasn’t pity that I felt for him, he was right. There wasn’t theoh, I feel so bad for yousort of feeling stirring in my chest. It was more likehow can I help take some of the pressure off?If he was too overwhelmed, he’d fail the Algebra II exam again.
Belatedly, I remembered that if he failed, no more valedictorian. I couldn’t let that happen. That was the only reason behind the feeling. The only reason.
“Well, let’s do something fun, then.” I shut my math book and swung my legs out from underneath the picnic table. “A five-minute game.”
Connor tilted his head curiously. “What kind of game?”
“You pick. Does your grandma have cards or anything?”
A sudden boyish glint lit in his eyes as he got to his feet, curbing the table, and heading to a small shed near the house. When Connor came back, he had a grin on his face and a football in his hand. The ball was sun-bleached and cracked with age. It clicked then what he meant, and I immediately began shaking my head. “This is not a game. This is asport.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Sports require physical activity. And sweat. And I’m wearing sandals.” I cast a glance around at his grandma’s yard, still muddy from yesterday’s downpour.
Connor raised his eyebrows at me, tossing the football up into the air and catching it with ease. “It doesn’t matter what kind of shoes you have on when you play catch.”
Oh, great. Catch. I had vivid memories of basketballs and volleyballs slamming into my face during gym class, breaking my glasses on at least two occasions. Why not add a football to that list?
Connor stopped about fifteen feet from me in the grass, tossing the ball up once more. “Five minutes, like you said. It’s been a long time since I’ve played a casual game of catch.”
“You literally have football practice every day!” And besides, how wascatcheven a game? For a couple of kids, maybe, but not for me.
He didn’t give me a response this time and didn’t wait for me to object further. Without warning, he drew his arm back and lobbed the football at me.
My hands went to my eyes, shielding my glasses as I ducked out of the ball’s path, and it bounced against the grass a few feet behind me.
“I know it’s a weird concept,” Connor called, a laugh clear in his tone, “but you’re supposed tocatchthe ball when playing catch.”
I fought the urge to flip him off. “I literally have never thrown a football in my life,” I told him with a twisted grimace, picking up the ball and weighing the thing in my hands. It was smoother than I thought—my fingers could hardly get a good grip on it. “I’d probably break one of your grandma’s windows.”
“You’re not even facing the house. If you manage to break a window, I’ll be impressed.”
This time, I did flip him off.
“Put one foot back a bit,” he said, demonstrating from his safe distance away. He set a leg behind him, leaning into that hip. “And then twist your body forward as you throw.”
I was breaking all sorts of personal rules I’d set for myself. One of the main ones was to stay as far away from football as possible, but here I was, doing exactly as Connor instructed.
Stupid. This was stupid. I was stupid. Why was I letting him talk me into this?
Drawing my arm back as he had, I put all my weight into the throw, the ball spinning unevenly through the air.
Connor had to hop back a few steps to snatch it, a happy laugh permeating the air from simply catching a ball. “That was good!”
