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"What about the roses? If he’d looked at my desk, he would've assumed that—”
"Shh," He presses a finger against my lips. "Don't worry about it. Let’s just pick up where we left off.”
“Sleep?”
“No.” He leans back on the mattress. “Come sit on my face.”
11
ME
Dear PepsiCo & Frito Lay,
I’m not sure which one of you is actually in charge of chip flavors, but if you’re insistent on keeping “Nacho Cheese” flavored Doritos on store shelves, can you please offer a complimentary pack of mint gum with every sale?
Wish I Would’ve Told You (Years Ago),
—Scarlett
Our Friday nights in the fall always unfold in the same predictable pattern. Cafes shut down from six o’clock until nine, as there’s no point in staying open while the entire town is at our high school’s football game. The police direct traffic and vow to lock up anyone who gets too rowdy.
The stadium seats are packed shoulder to shoulder with neighbors, classmates, recruiters, and anyone who has ever gotten a taste of what Grey Gulf Football has served over the past several seasons.
The team hasn’t lost a game in years, but they play like nothing is guaranteed. On the rare occasion that they’re behind in the first half, the crowd rallies hard in hopes to never have to feel a loss.
Easton’s father has a reserved set of seats in the stands, but he always places a “You Never Really Know Someone” sweatshirt on his wife’s place.
No one ever dares to ask him why.
“The fight song!” Our drum major screams at the top of his lungs, breaking me out of my thoughts. “The fight song!”
He waves his baton, counting us off, and I press my lips against the clarinet, blowing the notes with the band.
The cheerleaders move in synchrony with our songs and then the football team races onto the field.
The screams are deafening as Easton waves to the crowd. His eyes meet mine, and he blows me a kiss.
Then again, maybe it’s for Tully since she’s right below me and blowing a kiss at him, too.
Strapping on his helmet alongside his teammates, he calls for a huddle and leads them into their signature chant.
“The battlecry!” The drum major screams. “The battle cry!”
I wet my lips and prepare to play my part, hoping that this night ends in the same predictable fashion that the other ones have.
* * *
At halftime,our principal stands at the center of the field and smooths her red hair.
“Good evening wolves!” She shouts into the mic. “As you know, tonight is the night when we formally announce everyone who has met the minimum requirements to run for our prestigious homecoming court!”
The crowd roars.
“Since when is running for homecoming this big of a deal?” Kevin scoffs. “It’s a glorified beauty pageant.”
“I think you’re just jealous because you can’t run.”
He smiles. “You know me so well.”
