First & Then(29)

And now, today, the morning after the Hancock game, Foster emerged through the doorway, another version of his ever-changing self. It was clear why they were late.

Foster’s hair was cut. His scraggly hair was gone, and in its place was a very respectable, oddly stylish crew cut.

“You like it, Dev?” Foster threw himself down on the couch next to me.

“You look…” I said “different,” but I meant nice. From the neck up, Foster looked … well, he looked like a freshboy.

“Why’d you change it?”

He shrugged.

“He said it was time for a new look,” my mom told me in the kitchen after Foster had retreated to his room. “A varsity football look.”




The varsity football look went over well at school. Jordan rubbed Foster’s head between classes, saying, “I like it, man, I like it. We should rub your head for good luck.”

And there was Foster, grinning. “I thought about doing dreadlocks, but that’s sort of your thing.”

Jordan laughed. The girls around Jordan (for there were always girls around Jordan) laughed, too.

The look even made an impact on Tuesday’s gym class. We started off with more football exercises and Mr. Sellers’ usual call of “Partner up, everybody!” Foster would go to Ezra, and I would be stuck with a PT, as per usual.

But not today. Today a particularly enterprising PT grabbed Ezra by the sleeve before he could move an inch and said, “Partners! We’re partners!”

“Look at that,” I said to Foster. “Clearly, they’re mobilizing against you.”

Foster grinned. And then there was this cough. A cute, little “ahem.” Foster and I turned, and there stood Gracie Holtzer, with her flawless hair and her tied-up tee, and her disconcertingly perfect eyeliner.

“Do you want to be partners, Foster?” she said.

I glanced over at the group of PTs and freshboys assembled nearby. The PTs looked amazed, and the freshboys looked aggravated. This wasn’t a joke. This was the queen bee working without the approval of her drones.

“Uh, I’m going to be partners with Dev this time,” Foster said.

Gracie wore a look of mingled shock (for being rejected) and awe (for being rejected). I expected the look to morph into a scowl or some expression of disgust, but Gracie’s lip just sank into a pout, and she said, “Okay. But next time, all right?”

“Sure.”

“You could’ve gone with her,” I said when Gracie retreated.

He shrugged. “She’s not really my type.”

“You have a type?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

“I guess.” I hadn’t really thought about it before. I had one boyfriend, in the eighth grade. I don’t think boys’ personalities, brains, or bodies are fully developed enough in the eighth grade to be able to classify them as “types.” And, honestly, I didn’t think Foster’s personality, brain, or body was fully developed enough to have a type.

“So what’s your type?” I asked as Foster pulled a football from Mr. Sellers’ net bag.

Foster looked toward the PTs and, after a thoughtful pause, said, “Maybe less like that.”

I grinned. “Good call.”




I met with Ezra after practice that day. Rachel had taken to flooding my in-box at least twice a day with little updates and queries about the article. I figured the sooner I could give her some useful information, the sooner she’d get off my back.

Foster bummed around on the field while Ezra and I sat in the bleachers. I figured the whole interview would go more smoothly without Foster buzzing around asking what Ezra had for breakfast this morning or even worse, awkward Foster–style questions, like how many times a day does Ezra go to the bathroom or when was the last time he made out with someone.

I watched as Ezra pulled off his jersey and shoulder pads, and I dwelled on that last thought for just a moment. He was wearing a white T-shirt underneath that clung to him, and his hair was damp with sweat.

“So.” My voice was loud and unlike my own when I spoke. Ezra took a seat and started packing his equipment into his duffel bag. “Uh … how many schools are recruiting you?” It wasn’t Rachel’s first question, but I wasn’t about to start with a journalistic sucker punch.

“Four.”

“That’s it?”

“What, four isn’t good enough?”

“No, it’s just, everyone says it’s, like, twenty or something.”

“I narrowed it down.”

“So there were twenty at one point?”

He shrugged.

“Which one are you going to pick?”

“Whichever one has a uniform color that I look good in.”

His face hadn’t changed. But was that a joke? It had to be a joke. “Ha. So is that why you came to Temple Sterling?”

“Not exactly,” he said, and didn’t go on.

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I could only think of what Cas had told me and of Rachel’s questions about football and politics. A shift from the team to the individual.

“I know what people say,” he said after a moment. “It’s not enough to be good. You have to have some kind of … like a f*cking agenda or something.”