Young Writers Society

You ended up walking me to my car, which was about the last thing I expected. It was almost seven o'clock in the evening, moon peeking out from the haze, and you were leading me out the front door. Laughing out your nose, because I'd just been insisting (against your better judgement) that tossing a crumpled napkin into the garbage from five feet away didn't make me a 'baller'.

"You coming to the game tomorrow night?" you asked. We were standing by my car. The breeze brushed past your shirt sleeves. You shivered and were springy on your toes, shoulders scrunched to your ears.

"Game?" I asked, like it was a foreign language.

"Football. Y'know, to see your boy number thirty-three kick some ass?"

"And what're you?" I asked, crossing my arms. "The bench-warmer?"

You clutched at your heart, as if my comment had mortally wounded you."Bench-warmer?" you asked, appalled. "You gotta be kidding me."

"Yeah, third-string QB, right?"

You realized I was playing with you—I couldn't hold back a smile for the life of me. You exhaled, breaking into a boyish grin.

"Don't do that to me," you said, rubbing your hair. "Jesus."

"I might go," I said, shrugging. For a brief moment, I tried to imagine myself at your football game; clapping my hands wildly every time you dropped into the pocket and launched a throw into the end zone. Elatedly waving a Hornets pennant through the air when you pointed to me from the sidelines.

Unsurprisingly, the image evaded me. I couldn't see myself being your own personal cheerleader any more than I could see you being mine.

"Doesn't sound convincing," you said. "Maybe I oughta call you up tomorrow and make sure you don't forget."

I blinked. Were you finding excuses to call me?

You kind of laughed (like I was funny), before reaching over and clocking me on the shoulder. Turning away. "See you tomorrow, Val."

I quickly slid into the front seat of the car, determined not to watch as you jogged up the porch steps, or took two tries to throw open the door, or were careful to let it click shut behind you (because your mom had many things against slamming doors).

I drove back to my house. As I shuffled through the doorway, I caught sight of Bage at the counter. He hunched over a packet of paper, avidly flipping the pages of his textbook. He was wearing the outfit Mom didn’t like. Cargo shorts, bunched at the knees, too long, ‘more pockets than shorts’ as Mom would rebuke. But Bage liked to dress down. Depending on mood and circumstance, he could usually weasel a day or two a week of wearing what she called ‘homeless attire’.

I hung my jacket in the closet, and noticed my brother’s tennis shoes slung over the hat rack by the laces.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked Bage, frowning. In seeing me, he hastily swept something under a napkin.

“Getting groceries,” he said, chipper. He scribbled away at his paper. I rolled my eyes, untying the tennis-shoe laces and tossing the shoes onto the rug.

I walked into the kitchen. “What’re you working on?”

“Social Studies,” he told me. “I only have three questions left.”

I skirted around the counter and plucked an orange from the fruit bowl. I punctured the skin with my nails. Citric fumes permeated the room. I scrunched my nose. “To be honest, I’m impressed that you’re doing homework,” I told Bage. “Seems like since you’re home alone, you would be doing something a little more—“

Bage sheepishly removed what he’d been hiding in the napkin. It was a pile of Oreo cookies. “Just don’t tell Mom,” he pleaded.

“I won’t, as long as you give me one.”

Regretfully, he slid one across the counter. “Pact?”

“Pact,” I had agreed, mouth chock-full of Double Stuff.

“Mom asked where you were, and I didn’t know, so I told her you were at Jet’s.” He dismantled the cookie sandwich, licking the whites from the center. Then he sighed glumly. “You’re always at Jet’s nowadays.”

My brow knitted. I asked him why he cared.

“Because you’re the only one that’ll take me to the skate park,” he whined. Then he said, “I can’t wait till I’m old enough to drive. Then I’ll be able to go wherever I want.”

I opened the snack pantry, and peered inside for the longest time. After a spell of thought, I grabbed a bag of Snyder’s pretzels. I hoisted myself up onto the counter, setting the orange beside me and opening the bag. “Being able to go where you want isn’t as great as you think,” I told him.

Bage shrugged. He messily shoved his slim pile of papers into the center of his open book. Then he snapped it shut. “Done!” he exclaimed, before retrieving his phone from the couch. I could see him scrolling through his notifications. He opened the Instagram app.

Suddenly, Bage’s mouth fell agape. He inhaled sharply. “Whoa, look who liked my picture!” He thrust his phone in my direction. I squinted at the screen. I suppressed an eye roll at Bage’s picture; he was at the basketball courts with his friends, and they were making goofy faces. The list of users who’d liked the photo caught my eye, and the most recent was one I recognized: chris_mahoney33.

“Chris Mahoney liked my photo!” Bage exclaimed, prodding me.

I was puzzled; I hadn’t thought middle-schoolers like Bage had much knowledge of the goings-on at the high-school.

“You know Chris?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” Bage said. He nodded vehemently. “He scored the most points in basketball last year. He’s the best quarterback in the league, too. At least that’s what everybody says.” Bage threw his head back. “He’s so cool,” he groaned. “I can’t believe he liked my photo.”

“I know Chris,” I told him. “In person,” I added.

My brother’s eyes widened. “No way!”

“Yes way,” I said. “He’s in my class, remember? We’re working on a project together.”

My brother was ecstatic. It was almost as if you were the role model he’d aspired to be for years. I had forgotten how the younger kids would glorify the senior sports stars, and build them into statuary heroes. Their hyperbolic, swift-spreading stories turned normal students like you into transcendent legends.

“That’s so cool,” Bage marveled. “Can you let him know I’m your brother? And that when I’m older, I’m gonna be the best varsity point guard in school, and that I’m gonna beat his three-point record?”

The last bit made me smile.

“Maybe,” I said hesitantly. “We’re not really friends.”

“Why not? Isn’t he cool?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “He’s cool.” Not wanting to spoil Bage’s fantasy, I said, “I’ll just have to get to know him better before I tell him, alright?” I rolled the pretzel bag in my fingers, thinking of your refreshing directness. Of the way you’d looked at me for ten seconds straight. Of your fingers’ quick sweep through your short hair. Of your smile.

The next day, we passed each other in the hallway after second period. You didn’t catch my eye, which spurred a mixture of relief and disappointment. As I passed, Robert Hayworth sent a nod in Jet’s direction. Jet nodded back.

It was Thursday; our first day of commissions. You’d brought a clipboard to school with a homemade sign-up sheet. There was a column for the customer’s name, number, sandwich order, and signed confirmation. We’d sent out notices on Quinn’s and Valerie’s Facebook pages, and had also been able to spread the news through word of mouth. It was a gamble as to how many buyers we would actually get.

I was on my way down to our HQ. I was rushing a bit. Concern fluttered in my chest; today was the first day yours and my big plan would be launched into effect. The first day we’d be breaking the rules. The first day I would be risking my job.

I took a deep breath, and continued to round the corner. At first, the hallway appeared empty. Then I saw two silhouettes together by the West wall, one of whom was you, and the other was a girl. My eyes widened. Your mouth pressed against hers; her back was flat to the wall; a thin hand fell to your chest; your finger was in her belt loop, tugging her closer; blonde hair fell in a sheet into your faces; she executed a quick rake-back with her fingers, and then she pulled back. Alena Martin bore a messy, glossed smile and your mouth was open like you were catching flies. Exhilarated.

Alena giggled, and said to me, “I coulda sworn this hallway was abandoned or something.”

I stammered. “Um, yeah. No, it isn’t. There’s a janitor’s workspace at the end. I, um. Had to ask the janitor for something. Sorry to bother you guys?”

My lie was poor. I frowned at you. Your hands were in your pockets. You were looking at Alena.

“I’ll walk you back to lunch,” you told Alena.

On your way out, the both of you continued your conversation. Alena complained, “I hate that you can’t come to lunch anymore, Chris. Couldn’t they pick a better time for tutoring?”

I kept walking, urging the wildfire in my stomach to cool. Of all the places you could have taken your girlfriend, you’d chosen the place we were supposed to keep secret from Alena and Jet? I simmered with anger at your recklessness. I’d just been beginning to trust you.

I was setting up the folding table when the doorknob jostled. You entered the room. Immediately, you saw the look on my face.

“She saw me coming here,” you told me. You were pleading innocent. “I didn’t have a lie.”

“So you made out with her in the hallway?” I asked.

“Yes,” you said, as if your excuse was completely plausible. You were confused as to why I was even upset. After thinking for a moment, I realized that you were right. Nonetheless, a feeling of unsettlement burned beneath my skin. Though I had little reason to be angry, I refused to acknowledge your clever spontaneity.

I asked if you brought the clipboard, and you tossed it onto the table. You smiled with excitement. “Time to make some money,” you said to me, shimmying your shoulders a little. You were trying to negate my anxiety.

“If we’re lucky,” I said. Your optimism was, admittedly, effective.

The door opened suddenly, and a group of students walked in. Three boys. They were sophomores. Maybe juniors. “Is this that sandwich thing?” one of them asked, eyes darting between the two of us. You in your letter jacket, and me in my unassuming blouse.

“You got it,” you told them. “All three of you buying?” They nodded, stepping a bit further into the room.

You pushed the clipboard towards them, indicating where they were supposed to write. One by one, they stepped forward. After each of them signed their names, you handed out one of the cards we’d made. No sooner had they come in were our first, second, and third coupons gone. Next to each of their names, I wrote the number of the coupon you’d given them.

“Come by this time tomorrow, alright boys? You can pay then. It’ll be 5 bucks even. And go Hornets,” you called. “Game night. Don’t miss the ass-whooping.”

One of them laughed. Another said, “Good luck, thirty-three!” The last one tapped the edge of the table and smiled.

When they left, you elbowed me. “And that’s how you get ‘em to come back for seconds, Vally. Watch and learn.”

I made a show of rolling my eyes. Then I elbowed you back, hard.

After the trickle of customers at start-up, students began to enter in a steady flow. The numbers were surprising. ‘Go Hornets’ had become your tag line. We had underestimated business. It got to the point where you were worried the line would go out the door, and someone would see it.

You. Worried. About something so trivial.

You popped your knuckles. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We can just close up if we need to.” You craned your neck to watch the group lingering in the doorway. Before you could respond, your attention was captured by our next customer. She was here without company. She was a freshman; I’d seen her being consoled in my study hall by a few of her friends. She’d failed to make the cheerleading squad.

She approached the table, ogling you. Her cheeks were bright red. She stammered, embarrassed. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” you said. “Just write your name here and fill out your order. Nothing to it.”

She scrawled her name: Maria Evans. Maria hastily fixed her dark hair. Her huge eyes alternated between you and the floor. She was crushing on you so hard.

“There,” you told her, smiling. You gave her a card. Number 33. “Look at that!” you exclaimed. “You got the one with my jersey number. That’s lucky, y’know.” You winked. Maria blushed.

Bravely, Maria asked, “You guys have a game tonight, right?”

“Yup,” you replied. Your elbows rested on the table. I could smell your cologne. “Seven o’clock. Don’t miss it. I wanna hear you cheering the loudest, alright Maria Evans?”

She giggled a bit. She itched her cheek nervously. “Okay.”

“You’re cute,” you said amiably. “Spread the word, okay?”

She was so tantalized by your comment that she merely nodded and scurried from the room.

I smiled. I nudged you. “Looks like someone’s got their own personal fan club.”

“It’s the face,” you told me. “It’s got all the freshmen lining up.”

“You braggin’ about your genes again, Mahoney?” we heard from the entrance. A group of senior boys bustled into the room. David, Robert, Dan Rochere, and Pete Reagan. They were clad in letter jackets and jeans, and, like you, were bouncing with pent energy. It was the Game-Day rush, you’d told me.

You left me to take care of our two remaining customers, and started talking excitedly with your team members. “What’re you thinking about Westmore tonight, fellas?” you asked them.

“That you better watch out for the Pick Six, three-three,” Pete warned. “Lyle Indigo’s got ups, and he’s gonna be waiting for that interception.”

You rolled your eyes. “Details,” you droned. “Lyle Indigo’s a wannabe. He ain’t got nothing on me.”

“Hell no, he doesn’t,” Robert echoed. You clapped Robert on the shoulder, which was like a nonverbal ‘good man’. I tried to fathom why guys relied so much on contact to communicate. As if pats, hugs, and handshakes made up a secret code that only men were privy to.

“So how’d you two end up working together?” David asked, switching the subject. He’d been looking at the two of us. He had the same crippling hand-magnet habit as you, and tossed an apple in the air.

“Secret,” you said. You pressed your tongue into your cheek.

“Seems like Koskia Lawyerson’s too much of a good girl to get into fraudulent dealings. Don’t you think, Chris?” David looked at me as he spoke, smiling. He was tall and lanky, but had a considerable build. His hair had grown shaggy.

I frowned at him.

“Are you guys gonna commission us, or what?” I asked irritably. “This isn’t a frat lounge.”

They tittered with laughter, and looked to you for confirmation. You laughed along with your friends, but sided with me. “She’s right,” you said. “Sign up and then pack up.” Grumbling, they did as you said, before resuming hype about the game later tonight. You and I began to clean up. You lifted the table behind the bookcase, and I collected the clipboard and coupons. Your team congregated in the doorway.

“Pretty good sales for day one,” you said to me. “I got a cooler you can borrow tonight. For the sandwiches. We can meet at my house after you get back from work. Sound good?”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. I didn’t have to work until eight-thirty tonight. “But I have a cooler at my house, I think. Besides, it’s a short drive.”

You nodded, and then paused as if in thought. Your upper row of teeth held your bottom lip for a moment. You snapped out of your stupor. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

You started off in the other direction. You pivoted suddenly on your heel, and began walking backwards. “I’ll see you at the game, right Val?”

I looked at you, with your quirked eyebrow and open mouth, and then smiled. “Yeah. Good luck, Quinn,” I said.

That made you grin. You boosted your backpack on your shoulders before returning to your crew.

I resolved to make time for a football game in my schedule.