Broken Beautiful Hearts(20)
I didn’t get another text from the prank caller, but Reed texted me eleven times, which was more annoying.
The morning we left, I lugged a huge suitcase out of my closet and filled it with armloads of clothes. Clean or dirty—everything made the cut. How was I supposed to know what I’d need in Tennessee? My family had always visited in the summertime, and it was November.
I packed the important things last—my soccer cleats, even though I wouldn’t need them; the framed photo of my parents from my nightstand; a raggedy stuffed bunny I slept with, a birthday gift from Dad when I turned five; and the crooked friendship bracelet Tess made me in elementary school.
When it was finally time to leave, Mom couldn’t get me in the car fast enough. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I let her listen to mind-numbing soft rock stations.
The fall soccer season was supposed to be my victory lap, after three years of leading the girls’ varsity team to the state championships. Then in the spring, I’d showcase my skills with my select team. The hard part was supposed to be over, but now it was just beginning. Hawk came through on the physical therapy front—the only detail about this move that mattered to me. A doctor who specialized in sports therapy agreed to work with me.
Six hours into the drive, Mom turns off the radio in the middle of “The Pi?a Colada Song,” which means she wants to talk.
“Does Tess know you left?” she asks tentatively.
“Lucia told her.” The only one of my friends who seems to believe me. “I’m sure Tess doesn’t care. The last conversation we had lasted less than a minute and she called me a liar. I haven’t heard from her since then.”
Mom turns off at the next exit. “The truth will come out eventually. It always does.”
“That’s a cliché.”
“It also happens to be true.”
After the last three weeks, I’m not holding my breath.
The off-ramp merges onto a narrow two-lane road without a McDonald’s or a gas station in sight, just a green sign that reads: BLACK WATER 20 MILES. Crooked wooden fences wrapped in barbed wire separate the road from miles of pasture. Aside from the occasional weather-beaten barn, there’s nothing out here except cows.
Lots of them.
“Is this the road we usually take?” I look out the window in time to see a huge black cow taking a dump near the fence. “I don’t remember it being so … farm-like.”
“I took the back roads. Your dad preferred the highway. But Black Water is ‘farm-like’ no matter which road you take to get there. Before they built the grain processing plant, the only thing that came out of Black Water was Division One football players.”
“Football is archaic.”
“Don’t let your uncle or anyone else in town hear you say that,” she teases.
It doesn’t bother me if everyone hangs out at football games. I’m planning to spend all my free time rehabbing my knee.
Up ahead, I see the high school stadium. A white letterbox sign next to the parking lot reads, WARRIORS VS. STALLIONS. FRIDAY NIGHT.
The parking lot is full of pickup trucks and Jeeps.
“It’s like we’re at a country music concert.”
“That means we’re in the right place.” Mom pulls into the first free parking space and takes out her phone. “Before we go in, I need to check my work email.”
My knee is achy and stiff from the drive. “I’m going to stretch my legs.”
As soon as I get out of the car, it feels better.
Mom wasn’t exaggerating when she said everyone in Black Water loves football. I’ve never seen so many cars at a high school game. Even stranger, there’s nobody else out here except a kid riding a skateboard and three guys, who look like they’re in high school, drinking beer on the tailgate of a pickup.
Back home, there were usually more people hanging around outside the stadium than filling the seats inside.
The skater weaves between the trucks, dodging side mirrors like a pro. He coasts into the row next to ours. His hair is buzzed on the sides, with a short strip of hair running down the middle of his dark brown scalp.
Maybe this town isn’t as different from DC as it looks. A black kid with a fauxhawk wearing high-top Vans and an old-school Green Day hoodie is a good sign.
The skater does an ollie and the board does a perfect flip, righting itself in midair. He’s about to nail the landing when someone darts between two cars and kicks the board out from under him. I recognize the asshole with the mullet. He’s one of the guys I saw drinking in the back of the pickup.
The kid lands on his butt and winces.
The guy with the mullet laughs. I’m surprised he has the guts to laugh at anyone else when he’s sporting a bad ’90s haircut and a T-shirt that says: THE HIGHER THE TIRES, THE CLOSER TO GOD.
The jerk’s friends wander over, cracking up like idiots. The taller guy has pockmarked skin and a unibrow. His buddy has two separate eyebrows, but he doesn’t seem to know his shirt size. His T-shirt is stretched over his gut like a sausage casing. These two shouldn’t be laughing at anyone, either.
The tall guy with the unibrow points at the skater. “Looks like you need some practice, Tucker. Maybe you should go back to California and hang out with the other skate freaks.”
Tucker stands, brushes off his jeans, and picks up his board without a word. He either knows the drill or he’s smart enough not to antagonize them. He keeps his head down and stays close to the parked cars, giving the three guys a wide berth. He almost makes it past them when the jerk with the mullet lunges to the side and snatches Tucker’s skateboard out of his hand.