The Hard Count(75)

“A’right then,” he says, smiling enough that I know he knows I love him, and that I’m still pretty mad. He ambles toward the team—still very much his team, and he moves in next to our dad, trying to find his place now…whatever that is.





17





The evening air is unusually warm, and I’m thankful. Cornwall always holds the homecoming dance directly after the game. It’s one of the few incredibly typical things that we have here, but even still, it’s always made into something bigger than it really is or needs to be.

Paper decorations go up around the gym walls, and bleachers are pushed in to make room. Lights are off, special kinds brought in to set the mood. We hire a deejay. All of that is fairly normal, but then expectations are placed on everyone and everything. Dresses are the best. Couples are judged, while whispers begin to pick up the week before about who is going with whom, why they broke up with someone else, or if they’re going to hook up after the dance.

My dress is three years old. It’s white, eyelet style—the hem falling just above my knees. The sleeves are straps, and I left my sweater in my car since the weather was so nice. However, now all I can think about are my bare, freckled shoulders. The skirt is an A-line because those are the only types of dresses that don’t make me think about my hips. I wore it last year, when I came with Travis, but spent most of my time with Izzy. While this afternoon, when I slipped it on during my dash home before the game, I told myself I was fine with wearing the same thing two years in a row, now—sitting on the first row of bleachers with my mom and Travis’s mom, Linda—I feel like maybe I should have tried harder.

“What is Katie wearing,” my mom asks, almost a whisper.

My brother’s girlfriend will be wearing something designer and new. She does for everything. So will Izzy.

So will every other girl going to the dance.

“I don’t know,” I say, my attention on the field.

There are five minutes left in the fourth quarter, and we are up 38-14. Nico has had a spectacular game, running the ball in twice on his own and connecting with both Travis and Sasha for twenty-plus yard passes in the end zone. I’ve been splitting my time focusing on his game and the booth filled with maroon-and-white shirts up above. I left my camera recording on its own for the night on top of the box, but I amped up the mic, just in case it might be able to pick up their conversation. Now, though, I doubt I’ll even listen. Nico has been so impressive, there’s no way they don’t want him.

“I would have taken you shopping,” my mom says next to me.

I turn to respond, but see she’s still looking out on the field. I think her feelings are hurt that I didn’t ask. She’s just been so erratic the last few days that I didn’t want to push things with her. I wasn’t sure what version of my mom I would get—the one who says she’s fine with being off the social committee, who says she hates those women and can’t wait to see how great her life is without them, or the one who not-so-secretly cries about it all in the bathroom.

“I just really like this dress,” I settle on saying.

My mom looks over and runs her hand down the fabric, folding it over my knee and patting my leg.

“You look beautiful,” she says, and I can tell she means it. It warms my chest.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, placing my hand on hers, threading our fingers, and squeezing.

The game clock is ticking down quickly now. St. Augustine isn’t a very strong squad, and we’ve run them ragged. My dad lets Brandon take the final set of downs, and Nico joins Colton and several of the other guys—including my brother—near the middle of the field on the sidelines. Helmets off, they all seem light and happy, a different mood from the one that has dominated practices this week. They’ve worked hard, and tonight…it showed.

With only a few seconds on the clock, I stand and begin to straighten out my dress, suddenly even more aware of my curled hair, my lack of lipstick, my self-applied eyeshadow and blush. I can’t see my reflection, but in my imagination, I look like an ill-prepared clown. I start to fidget with my hands when I glance around the stands and see the other moms and booster parents—the crowd that just last week sat down here, with my mom.

I glance to my mom and see she’s looking at them, too.

“You’re better off without them,” I say.

She looks to me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I told them I was stepping down, too, but they made me promise to finish this godforsaken barbecue tomorrow,” Linda says.

“You don’t have to step down; I told you that,” my mom tells her friend—maybe her only friend.

“Lauren, I hate those women. I’ve been dying to be done with this. Way I see it, you’ve given me six extra weeks of my life back,” she says.

My mom smiles bigger now.

The clock hits zero, and the cheers aren’t as loud as normal with most of the fans already leaving, rushing toward the gym doors or to the field exit to take photos with their sons and boyfriends. I make eye contact with Nico, and he bunches his hand in a wave. His mom had a church event tonight. She made him promise her he would take photos of the two of us. I know my mom won’t leave without snapping a few of her own, so I’ll make sure she takes some with our phones.