All This Time(13)

The sound of thunder fills my ears, loud and steady and rolling. For a second I flinch, suddenly back in the storm from that night, but then I look to the side to see the football stadium at Ambrose High aglow, the parking lot filled with cars.

Drums. Not thunder.

Cheers pour from the stands, nearly drowning out the steady drumbeat of the band. It’s Friday night; one of the first football games of the year is in full swing. I find myself tucking the grocery bags under my arm and veering off the path, the lights and the cheers pulling me into the crowd and onto one of the cool metal benches.

I take a deep breath. Everything feeling… strangely right for the first time in a long time. The crowd around me. The teal-and-white uniforms on the field. Coach blowing the whistle that hangs around his neck.

Some of the current Ambrose High players laugh on the bench, shoving one another as they joke around. One gets up and does the spirit dance that Sam started incorporating into every huddle junior year, while another sneaks a few Pringles out of a drawstring bag at his feet as everyone else is distracted. That so reminds me of Sam.

When we were freshmen and distinctly second string, we would sneak snacks onto the field in our helmets, eating them when Coach was in the middle of calling a play. One game, I convinced Sam we should try to be a little healthier by bringing peanuts instead of Famous Amos cookies. Of course, that was the day Lucas McDowell, a senior benchwarmer, decided to rat us out at the end of the third quarter.

Coach made us run laps for every peanut left in the bag.

I nearly lost a lung that day. And then I had to listen to Sam bitch the whole time about how we would’ve been done twenty laps ago if we’d just stuck with cookies, because there wouldn’t have been any cookies left in the bag by the end of the third quarter.

I smile to myself and watch as the game goes on. Before I know it, I get swept up in the crowd in the best kind of way, cheering when our team pulls out a first down on a carry up the middle by the running back, or when the other team misses an easy thirteen-yard field goal.

The cheerleaders’ bright uniforms catch my eye. They’re in formation on the track, right in front of the stands, their teal-and-white pom-poms moving precisely. When a girl with blond hair is launched into the air, I look away before my mind can try to mess with me.

I refocus my attention on the quarterback as he calls the play on the field. My eyes follow the players as they move into position. I spot a fullback standing out of place, leaving a gap wide enough for the defense to easily slip right through. Oh no. I want to shout to the quarterback to look out, but my voice is frozen.

The center hikes the ball. I grip the bleacher I’m sitting on as the offensive line breaks to run their play. The quarterback cocks his arm to launch a pass just as the defense blitzes. Red jerseys rush the offense, and hulky Number 9 finds the gap.

Everything seems to slow down. My chest is heavy with dread, but I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s too familiar. Way too familiar.

On the field, the fullback freezes, realizing his error. He leaps to protect his quarterback, but it’s too late. Number 9’s already there, nothing but air separating him from his target.

I lurch clumsily to my feet as the ball drops awkwardly from the quarterback’s hand, his entire body crumpling under the weight of Number 9.

His scream reverberates around the stadium.

My shoulder twinges in sympathy as I see the fullback calling for help, his quarterback writhing on the ground, arm splayed behind him at a nauseating angle. Coach runs onto the field and rips the quarterback’s helmet off to reveal messy brown hair and… Oh my God.

I’m staring at myself. That’s me down there, arm twisted backward.

I almost vomit, barely managing to swallow the sour bile. This isn’t happening.

The fullback drops to the grass. He yanks his helmet off. It’s Sam. Sam missed the block.

I can see the panic on my best friend’s face from here.

My bad leg trembles and buckles, no longer able to hold my weight. I collapse onto the bench, one of the worst moments of my life playing out right in front of my eyes. How is any of this happening? My brain is fucking with me again. It has to be. Just that thought starts to calm me.

It’s not real. It’s a hallucination. That’s all.

“You’re stronger than this, Kyle,” a voice says from next to me.

I freeze, then slowly turn my head.

God, there she is. Kimberly, sitting on the bench beside me, eyes straight ahead, focused on the field, her skin as smooth as porcelain under the bright stadium lights. I blink furiously, waiting for her to disappear, but she doesn’t.

“You’re not here,” I whisper.

“I haven’t left,” she says as she turns to look at me, the stadium lights illuminating the rest of her face. The entire right side of her head is cut up and bloody, her blond hair matted and red. She reaches out her hand to touch mine. And nothing stops her. I feel it. But no one else is reacting.

“You’re not here.” I rip away from her and jump to my feet, trying to put as much space as possible between us. “You’re not here! You’re not fucking here.”

“The fuck?” someone says, knocking me back into reality.

In one blink Kim is replaced by a curly-haired guy a few years younger than me, his face painted teal and white. “I’m here, dude,” he says, sliding away from me as he looks me up and down. “You might need to be somewhere else, though.”