First & Then(52)

He didn’t pass our house up—I was almost sure he would. Instead, he slowed and walked up the front path, stopping in front of Foster.

I couldn’t hear what he said, but Foster shifted over and Ezra took a seat next to him.

They sat there for a little while, their backs to the window. And then they got up and took off. Running side by side down the street.

I went and showered. I made some toast. All the while pretending as if I wasn’t keeping an ear out for Foster.

“What did he say?” I couldn’t help but ask when he walked through the door.

“Nosy,” was Foster’s reply. His hair was damp with sweat, and his face was red. “He apologized,” he said.

“And you forgave him? Just like that?”

He shrugged, shifted back and forth for a moment, and then said, “I told him he should come in and talk to you.”

I laughed. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“He didn’t want to.”

“I’m sure.”

“But not ’cause he’s not sorry.… It’s just more awkward, you know? Because you’re a girl.”

“So?”

“So it’s more awkward if it’s a girl. And if there’s like … feelings and stuff.”

“Feelings and stuff?” I repeated.

He shrugged again.

“Forget about it. I don’t want to talk to him,” I said, even though it might not have been the truth.

Foster just eyed me for a moment, like he knew that was the case, and then he turned and went upstairs.




I hated gym that week. The football unit had ended, and we were starting basketball. Too many things happen at once in basketball; you’re supposed to run and dribble and pass and shoot a big round ball into a teeny-tiny hoop ten feet off the ground. Not my sport. But it wasn’t just basketball that made gym suck. It was seeing Ezra.

I knew what Foster meant, as much as I hated to admit it—there were feelings. I wasn’t quite sure what those feelings were, but I was pretty sure that if there were none at all, it would’ve been a lot easier to just go up and talk to him. But instead, I felt compelled to stare in the opposite direction any time Ezra neared me in the gym.

Halfway through passing drills, a PT flung a ball at Ezra, and it bounced right past him toward my general vicinity. Instead of doing the human thing—picking up the ball and giving it back to them—I spun around quickly to head off in the other direction. And promptly took another rogue basketball to the face.

You wouldn’t think it would hurt that badly, but I imagine it was what being slapped would feel like. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, cupping my face with one hand, and there was that terrifying second where I was pretty sure I was going to burst into tears. Involuntary crying, like when a baby hears a loud noise.

But I managed to keep it together, and when I opened my eyes again, Gracie Holtzer and several PTs had materialized in front of me. Gracie wrapped an arm around me.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? Madeline, go punch James.”

I watched as a tall, lanky PT went over to the stocky defensive end I knew only as Kenyon and punched him in the arm.

“That’s for hitting Devon,” Gracie called.

“Geez,” Kenyon said. “It was an accident.”

“I’m sorry, what now?” Gracie said, and her expression was deadly.

“Sorry,” Kenyon mumbled.

“That’s better.” Gracie looked at me. “Let’s see.” She pulled my hand away from my face. “Oh that’s not so bad. Just a little pink. You want some cover-up? Or ice? Ice and then cover-up?”

Those were the least of my concerns, because it was then that I realized Ezra was right behind us. I was seized with the instant need to get out of there.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” I said to Gracie. “Thanks, I’m just going to go.…” And I booked it to the girls locker room, where it was safe. No flying basketballs. No awkward confrontations.

I examined my face in the mirror. I was indeed a little pink around the eye. I touched the skin there and winced. Just what I needed. A gym-class souvenir.

“Are you okay?”

I jumped and spun around. “God, you startled me.” I hadn’t seen Ezra approach in the mirror. Too distracted by my own reflection.

“Sorry. Just … wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine. You shouldn’t be in here.”

“You went into the boys locker room once,” Ezra said. “If you recall.”

I did recall. But I had no idea what to say to that. So silence settled in, yet Ezra made no move to leave.

“We don’t have to talk about the game,” I said, finally. “Foster said you didn’t want to.”

“That’s … that’s not what I said.”

“So what did you say?”

Ezra didn’t speak. He just frowned at a sparkly pink Victoria’s Secret duffel bag on the bench to my right.

Something flared up in my chest—annoyance, or frustration, or both. Obviously he was capable of expressing himself. He came through loud and clear in the parking lot after the game. So why was he silent now, why did the burden of talking have to be on me? It wasn’t fair.