Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(13)

I sigh. “Of course I’d like you. But that’s because you’re outspoken, bossy, and don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“You just made me sound like a total witch.”

“I know, but let’s not get sidetracked. This is my meltdown.”

“Addie, come on, you usually don’t care what anyone else thinks either. What’s going on?”

“I don’t care when people think I’m an antisocial, controlling bookworm because that’s what I am. It’s when they interpret me wrong that I have a problem.”

She gives a short burst of laughter. “Well, I’m sure you’ll prove yourself to be just what you are soon enough. I gotta run. I’m getting ready to go out.”

I pull the cell phone away from my ear to check the time. “Yeah, me too. Football game. Actually I’d better go take a shower.”

“Wait. You’re going to a football game?”

“My dad’s taking me.”

“Wow. Well, that’s not going to help your image.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m proud of you. Find the student section and make some friends.”

I wish she were going with me, and I think about blubbering this to her in an ever-so-dignified manner but settle with, “I’ll try.”

My dad and I sit on the cold cement benches of the stadium as we watch the game. It’s a lot louder than I remember. The crunching of helmets and the cheering of the crowd echo through the air. The moon hangs over the stadium, a sliver in the sky. I try to remember the last time I’ve seen the moon anything but full.

“Is it disappointing?” my dad asks.

“Not at all,” I answer quickly, and then realize I’m not sure if he’s talking about the moon or the game. I decide the answer applies to both.

“Addie, why don’t you go sit in the student section? It looks like they’re having a lot more fun.”

I look over to where a whole section of high school students are cheering and waving signs. Some have even painted their bodies in the school colors. I wonder how they can be so excited without Mood Controllers rallying their emotions. My dad nudges my shoulder with his.

“I don’t know anybody.”

“And that’s never going to change unless you try.”

“I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

He chuckles. “I’m a big boy.”

The night, which has turned quite cold considering how hot the day was, sends a shiver down my spine. After another nudge, I stand and walk over. My dad always knows when to push and when to back off. I needed that push.

The student section is pretty full, so I squeeze my way down several rows. Faces that hold no history for me flash by, their most prominent features lingering in my mind for a moment or two—bright red hair, a large nose, green eyes, a gap-toothed smile. Finally, I find an empty seat next to a guy wearing cowboy boots and a wool-lined jean jacket. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he watches the game intently.

“Excuse me, are you saving this?”

He looks up. Long lashes surround chocolate brown eyes. “No, have a seat,” he says in the Southern accent that prevails here.

I sit down. “Thanks. And can we just get this out of the way? Your eyelashes make mine want to commit suicide from shame.” Yeah. I’m not very good at small talk.

He laughs.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”

“Never put like that …” He looks around. “You here alone?”

“Well, sort of. My dad’s over there.” I nod my head toward my dad. “You?”

“No. See those idiots right there?” He points to the front railing, where several guys stand shirtless with painted chests and wigs on. “Those are my friends.”

All his friends are making fools of themselves, and he’s not. Right away that says almost everything I need to know about him: He’s not a follower, he can make up his own mind, and he’s perfectly okay with sitting alone. “Why aren’t you participating?”

“Because a coat of paint doesn’t conceal my layer of fat very well.”

I give him a quick once-over. He looks like he’s in good shape, but it’s hard to tell with his jacket on. I glance back at his friends. “It’s not doing them any favors either,” I note.

He smiles. “Plus, it’s cold tonight.”

“Your layer of fat is supposed to help with that.”

“True.” A whistle sounds, and he turns his attention back to the field. The quarterback snaps the ball and is almost immediately tackled in a hard hit near the thirty-yard line. I suck air between my teeth.

“I’m Trevor, by the way,” he says, now that the play is over.

“Addie.”

“Addie?”

“Yes, short for Addison.”

“Do you go to this school, Addison?”

The fact that he has to ask makes me realize it must be a very big high school. I may not have known everyone’s name at my old school, but I would easily recognize a new face. “My father and I just moved here. I start school on Monday.”

“Ah, very good. Welcome to Dallas.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re a senior?”