The Last Harvest(5)

“I hate to break it to you, but it’s never gonna happen.”

“They don’t call ’em freshies for nothing. For all they know I could be the coolest guy at school.”

“They call them freshies because they’re fourteen-year-old girls, not because they’re stupid. And Jess is going to be one of them next year, so lay off.”

“Don’t be such an old man.” He punches me in the shoulder. “Hang out with me tonight.”

“Can’t, last harvest,” I say as I hoist my backpack up on my shoulder. “Besides, all you’re going to do is park up at the Quick Trip and holler at girls all night from the back of your pickup.”

“I’ve got it all figured out. You need to catch ’em when they’re feeling all vulnerable—on a late-night ice cream run in sweats and no makeup. You tell them they look beautiful and they’re yours.”

“You’re an idiot,” I say as we make our way across the lot.

“Or I’m a genius. Fine line, my friend. It was a lot easier to get girls to talk to me when you were QB. All I had to do was drop your name, tell ’em we’re cousins.”

“Second cousins.”

“Whatever.”

Some pep girls run by, and Dale elbows me. “Big game tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?” I act like I don’t know it’s the biggest game of the season. Homecoming.

I should’ve never stepped on that field last year. My dad wasn’t even in the ground yet. I’d like to say I did it for him, or coach, or the team, but the truth was I did it for me. And look where that got me.

“He’s a shit quarterback,” Dale mutters as we edge around Tyler’s car. “Everybody knows the only reason he’s starting is ’cause his old man paid for the new stadium.”

“If you love football so much, maybe you should play.”

“Please. They wouldn’t even know what to do with this much power.” Dale clenches his fist, trying to make a bicep appear, but it’s no use. Dale was born with a tiny hole in his heart. Can’t play sports. Doc’s orders.

“Hey, has anyone started raising cattle around here?” I ask as casually as possible.

“Why? Are those jerks still mooing at you?” Dale bristles.

“What? No. I don’t know … I was just curious. Wait, who was mooing at me?”

“No cattle, dude.” He tries to play it off, but he looks concerned. “If something’s going on, you’d tell me, right?”

“Sure. ’Course, man.” I manage my best “I’m not going crazy” smile.

Dale wanders off after some girl in a low-cut top. I swear, he’s got the attention span of a cicada in heat.

As I wait for him at the top of the steps, I look out over the lot, my gaze immediately drawn back to Ali. She’s gathering her hair over her shoulder when I notice a mark on the nape of her neck.

It isn’t anything pretty like angel wings or a butterfly. It looks like the same thing Tyler has on his inner wrist. An upside-down U with two dots above and below. The harder I look at it, the more disgusted I get.

It doesn’t make any sense. Ali’s too squeamish for that. I had to hold her hand when they pricked her finger in seventh grade for blood testing in science class. And this isn’t any tattoo. It looks hard-core, like some kind of prison tattoo. Or a brand.

Tyler moves into my line of sight, staring right at me as he pulls Ali’s hair away from her neck, like he wants to give me a better view.

A blistering rage pulses through my entire body.

In a panic, I rush into school. My chest feels tight, my eyes blurry as I barrel through a group of students. I don’t know where I’m going; all I know is I need to get away. I slam into the emergency exit door at the end of the hall, triggering the alarm. I scream as loud as I can over the piercing wail.

Why would she let him do that to her?

Mark her like f*cking cattle.





4

I MAKE it through most of my classes, but the idea of facing any of them in the cafeteria makes my skin crawl, so I sneak out to the booth above the football field and hide out until last period. I still have the key from when I used to come out here at night and go through plays.

Settling myself on the concrete floor beneath the control panel, I pull out my lunch. Noodle always puts something on the outside of the brown paper bag. Today, it’s a smiley face sticker. She makes me the same lunch every day. I don’t even like grape jelly anymore, but I don’t have the heart to tell her.

I try to concentrate on finishing up my algebra, but I find myself drawing the symbol I saw on Ali’s neck over and over again on the front of my folder.

Yeah, I want to beat the shit out of Tyler, but I feel more bummed than anything else. I mean, it’s her body, Ali can do whatever she wants with it, but something about that mark makes me feel like it’s too late for me, like maybe I never even had a shot.

The booth has a musky damp smell, same smell as the locker room. I try not to think about it, but I miss it. It’s not about the trophies, or even being part of a team. I miss it like you’d miss a limb. It’s like I can feel the memory in my muscles, my fingers naturally curving around the ball. But when I think of my last game, them hauling off that poor kid in a back brace, I clench my hand in a tight fist. They said I just snapped, that it could happen to anyone. But that’s what they said about my dad, too. All I know is that I didn’t need to tackle him. I wanted to do it. I wanted to hurt someone, and that scares me more than anything. What I’m capable of … what’s in my blood.