Shuffle, Repeat(22)

Shaun and I have to walk along the track to get to the bleachers. It’s much louder and more crowded than I ever would have guessed. The marching band is already in their section, playing what I assume is a fight song. Ainsley and the other cheerleaders are out in front, waving and kicking and bouncing. We thread our way through packs of young kids eating hot dogs and parents carrying vinyl seat cushions and students vibrating with pep and anticipation. Everything smells like popcorn.

I let Shaun lead me to a seat in the center of the bleachers. “Wow, so this is what the world looks like from here,” I say to him, and he elbows me in the ribs.

“Okay, turn to me,” he orders. I do and his eyes rove over my face for several seconds. He looks very intent. “I’m seeing hearts.”

“What?” If Shaun is turning straight or something, we are going to have to retool how our friendship works.

“I’m seeing balloons. I’m seeing a delicate bird stretching its wings to leap from a nest.”

“I’m seeing a crazy person. What are you talking about?”

“The work of art that I’m going to paint on your face.” Shaun whips out a pack of fat, oily crayons. “You’re here, so be here already.”

I open my mouth to say no—or more likely, hell no—but then I pause. Something about the trumpets and the cheerleaders’ skirts and the stale popcorn in the air makes me reconsider. Below, Oliver is about to put himself out there in front of all the world to see his triumph or his defeat. Would it kill me to show a little support?

“No hearts,” I tell Shaun. “No balloons, and definitely no delicate birds.” I point to my right cheek. “Go.” I point to my left cheek. “Robins.”

A smile blossoms across Shaun’s face. “That’s my girl. Blue or red?”

“Surprise me.”

? ? ?

It’s somewhere in the middle of the third quarter and we’re tied with Lake Erie High. I’ve been able to figure out which one is Oliver (mostly because he told me he’d have a number 2 emblazoned across his back) and have watched him do all sorts of running and catching. Two out of our four touchdowns were made by him, to much screaming and adulation from our side of the field. The marching band show at intermission (“halftime,” Shaun corrected me) was loud and precise and clap-worthy, and it’s been surprisingly interesting to watch the cheerleaders hop and scream and fling each other into the air. I’m wearing Shaun’s letterman jacket (varsity tennis), because it’s gotten chilly, and even that makes it feel like I’m at a weird, fun costume party.

There’s no way around it: I’m having a great time.

Since I still don’t really understand what’s happening on the field, it doesn’t occur to me to wait until the end of a play to admit this all to Shaun. I tug on his sweatshirt and he tilts toward me, his eyes still on the game. Everyone in the bleachers is chanting and stomping and clapping, so I bring my mouth up to Shaun’s ear. “This is fun!” I yell, and pull back to see his reaction.

Except he’s not turning to give me one of his wide, happy smiles. Instead, he’s gasping and his hand is at his chest, squeezed in a fist.

In that moment, I realize that all around us, in every row, all the students and parents and little kids have also retreated into shocked silence. I whip my gaze to the field and zero in on the center, where one of the players lies in a crumpled heap while people run toward him from every direction.

Oliver.

That’s when I gasp into the silent air, seconds later than everyone else. That’s when both my hands fly to my mouth and I lurch to my feet. I’m not sure what my plan is—to run down there or call 911 or something—but before I can do it, there’s a death grip on my left elbow. Shaun pulls me back to the seat and tucks an arm around my waist. “Easy,” he murmurs, and makes a fast, subtle gesture with one knuckle.

I follow his gaze to where Ainsley stands amid a protective circle of cheerleaders. She’s tense, her arms wrapped around herself, watching the people clustered around Oliver. One of Ainsley’s friends rubs small circles on her back.

“Right,” I say to Shaun.

“Right,” he says.

And then the awfulness is over, because Oliver is lifting his head; he’s slowly sitting; he’s shaking off assistance; he’s pulling himself upright and waving to our side of the field, where the bleachers erupt into a stomping, screaming explosion of celebration. I feel like crying but I don’t, because below, Ainsley already is doing that. Instead, I smile and I clap and I let my tears flow out of her eyes.

That’s where they belong.

? ? ?

“I didn’t realize,” says Shaun as we stand around by the south entrance of the field, waiting for Oliver and Ainsley.

“What are you talking about?”

Shaun gazes at me, then leans over and kisses the top of my head. “Never mind.”

? ? ?

The party is at a farm out near Dexter. Ainsley said it’s the property of Theo’s cousin, but then I heard Zoe tell someone the land belongs to the family of Cal Turman, who graduated last year, so who knows? Getting here was the first time I’ve ever ridden in the backseat of the behemoth, the floor of which is just as littered with discarded water bottles and trash as anyone would think. Right after the game, Ainsley was really worried about Oliver driving after his injury, but she appears to have been reassured, since now she and her posse are pounding beers beside a raging fire in the middle of nowhere.