She Drives Me Crazy(3)
Grandma Earl High School is the home of the Fighting Reindeer, which is why I have to wear a red-and-brown jersey on the basketball court. That color scheme doesn’t look good on anyone, but especially not a fair-skinned redhead like me. That’s one good thing about the lack of fans at our games: fewer people to catch me looking like a fire hydrant. Not that I’ve ever really cared. Or at least, I didn’t used to.
Candlehawk is the town—or township, as they call it—next to ours, and they’re kind of like Grandma Earl’s douchey older brother: cool, cocky, and perpetually embarrassed to be associated with us. We share a border at the old railroad tracks, but things are much different over there: trendy, modern, full of organic coffee roasters and uppity farmers markets. The residents are low-key wealthy and high-key hipster. They show up to our rival games wearing navy beanies and $150 distressed jeans while our half dozen supporters show up in gardening shirts and cargo pants. And at halftime, no matter what the sport, their crowd taunts us about the time a Grandma Earl football player tackled his own teammate in a championship game. It’s the reason Candlehawk sings “Grandma got run over by her own reindeer” whenever we play each other.
I hate that Tally has become a Candlehawk kid, but maybe I should have seen it coming. She was always obsessed with how things looked and who was doing the looking. Dating her felt like viewing my life through a photo filter. Sometimes I was swept up by how great we looked together; other times, I felt like the photo underneath wasn’t good enough on its own.
The school’s back door heaves open, jolting me from my thoughts. Tally comes gliding out, flanked by several players from her new team. Her face is bright and her laughter loud, but she draws to an abrupt stop when she sees me.
“Hey,” I say evenly.
“Hey.” She jams her hands in her leather jacket and shoots her entourage a loaded look. “Give me a sec, guys.”
The Candlehawk girls trudge away with their eyebrows raised. They don’t bother looking my way.
“Sorry,” Tally mutters, coming toward me on the retaining wall. She nods at her retreating teammates. “They were trying to talk me into getting a fog machine for, um”—she glances away, shrugging—“for a Halloween thing I’m having.”
I blink, trying to keep my expression steady. A Halloween thing. That’s code for yet another party, one of many she’s thrown since starting at Candlehawk. The lack of an invitation feels like a physical blow, but I know better than to have expected one. I try not to imagine what kind of costume she’ll wear, the pictures she’ll post. How many people will be in her house, taking shots in the kitchen where we baked cupcakes a few months ago.
“Tell people to watch out for that fireplace corner,” I murmur. It’s an intimate memory: During my first visit to Tally’s house, while her parents were away, I’d cut my shin on the dark red brick protruding from her oversized fireplace. Happy to play nurse, Tally had kissed the pain away. She hadn’t told me to shush that time. Probably because no one had been watching.
I think there’s a glimmer of recognition in Tally’s eyes, but she looks away before I can be sure. “Um—anyway. Some game, right? I’ve never seen you that pissed off before. I think you actually scared some of my teammates.” She laughs, but it’s hollow.
That prickle of shame runs down my spine again. I shift on the wall and ask, “Does it matter? I mean, do they know who I am to you?”
She chews her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe from social media?”
I bristle. Tally deleted all her pictures of me the day after we broke up.
“So, probably not,” I say pointedly.
Tally crosses her arms over her chest. “You didn’t have to throw the ball at them. If they do know about you, that’s not the impression I want them to get.”
“Well, sorry I can’t maintain a good enough image for you, Tally.”
“Jesus, Scottie,” she mutters, like I’m the most impossible person in the world. “You’re being so over the top. It’s just a game.”
I feel like she’s dumped a bucket of ice water on my head. It soaks through my skin and twists around my insides.
“Just a game?” My voice is shaking. “If it’s just a game, why did you have to transfer to Candlehawk for it?”
Tally sighs. Dead leaves skitter across the concrete. “Okay, look, I don’t want to fight. I should have known it was a bad idea to talk when you’re all riled up after a game—”
“I’m not riled up,” I say, trying to control my emotions.
Tally levels me with a stare. “Anyway.” She reaches in her jacket pocket and pulls out a plastic button the size of a drink coaster. I know what it is even before I see the picture on the front.
“I wanted to give this back to you,” she says, laying it in my palm.
It’s my basketball button from junior year. A photo of me in my gaudy red-and-brown jersey, my eyes shining brightly. The school gives them out to athletes so our parents or friends can wear them to our games, even if it’s usually just the football players who use them. Last year, Tally and I swapped buttons. I pinned hers to my backpack for the whole season, ready to tell anyone who asked that she was my girlfriend. No one did, but I was proud anyway.
Tally never wore my button, though. Maybe I should have taken that as a hint.