You Should See Me in a Crown(36)
“You’ve always been unstoppable, Lighty.” Jordan smiles, one of the old smiles. One of the ones I recognize. “Consider it intuition.”
“Anyone call for a doctor?” Mack appears in the doorway with a small smile and red first aid kit in her hand.
Jordan looks back and forth between the two of us and I can’t quite place his expression. An even-wider grin spreads across his face as he claps his hands once.
“All right, Strawberry Shortcake, take care of my friend. I gotta go get my squad together. I’m sure that crowd could use a little pep right now.”
When Jordan disappears, I look back at Mack, and my heart beats a little faster. I’m happy to see her, of course, but it’s something else. Like I’m excited and relieved at the same time. I was wrong when I said her presence could calm me down. If anything, proximity to her makes me way too aware of how I feel. Not even in the height of my friendship-that-may-have-also-been-a-crush with Jordan did I ever feel like this.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask as she moves toward me.
“You happen to be looking at a professional, ma’am.” She sits down next to me on the treatment table and sets the kit on her lap. She pops it open and pulls out what she’s looking for: an antibacterial wipe. “I try a lot of tricks on my board that I probably shouldn’t. I’ve gotten pretty good at patching myself up.”
Mack gently dabs at a small cut above my eyebrow where my face ate turf. I flinch, and she immediately pulls back.
“No, it’s fine,” I clarify. “Distract me. Tell me about what’s going on out there.”
“Madame Simoné is having a major meeting with both teams right now. A lot of switching back and forth between French and English, so you know she’s serious.” She smirks. “But on the bright side, I’ve never seen the freshmen so concerned. I heard one of them shout ‘Liz Lighty is stronger than the US Marines!’ on my way in here.”
I can’t help but laugh. One day someone is going to do a documentary on the baby paparazzi of Campbell County prom, and it’s going to be a hit on all the streaming services.
“It’s that bad, huh?”
“In all fairness, ‘There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.’ ” Her smile is something worth putting in magazines, I swear. “Oscar Wilde could be super out of touch sometimes, but I’m convinced he wrote that line with Campbell in mind.”
Mack moves to put a bandage over my brow, and I’m positive I look like one of those old rappers who used to wear those oversize T-shirts: goofy as hell.
My phone vibrates with texts from Gabi.
I close my eyes and wait. No text ever comes asking if I’m okay.
I need a distraction.
“One-for-one?” I ask suddenly.
“Always.”
“Why were you late today?”
“This isn’t how I envisioned asking you out, in a sweaty locker room when you might very well have a concussion.” She bites her thumbnail. I let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “But I was talking to a friend of mine about getting us into the Kittredge show tomorrow night. You know, if you want to go?”
And I know people say stuff like this all the time—that the world stops spinning or their whole life flashes before their eyes or whatever, but I feel all of that and more. The way she’s looking at me—smiling like she’s not sure if I’m going to say yes, green eyes searching mine—makes me forget for a moment that I don’t date. That I’m not exactly “out.” That I have to stay focused to win this race and get the scholarship. I forget it all.
“I’d love to.”
Mack asked if we could leave earlier than we’d planned and offered to come pick me up instead of meeting at the concert. Maybe it was the fact that I was still riding the highs of the win at the powder-puff game and our moment in the locker room, but I couldn’t even find it in me to say no. I’m actually going to let her see my house. I don’t want to hide things from her—part of me, a big, scary part of me, wants to tell her everything.
Since there won’t be anyone from school to see me stepping out of my newfound character, I decide to wear a pair of my mom’s old overalls, complete with the requisite patches over the knees and bleach stains from twenty years of washes; a cropped black sweatshirt; and a pair of cool red booties that I found on sale at a thrift shop a couple of months ago. My hair is pulled up into two puffs on top of my head, with a few stray curls making their escape near my edges. Normally I’d be annoyed at my hair’s inability to follow simple directions, but today I actually kind of really like it.
It’s my first time in weeks wearing something I’m totally, completely comfortable in, and I can’t take my eyes off myself in the bathroom mirror. I snap a selfie for posterity and laugh when I review it. My smile is goofy, and the framing isn’t great, but I don’t delete it. I want to remember everything about this night.
My phone vibrates with two texts from G.
I hate lying to my best friend even more than I love when Mrs. Marino stress-bakes, but I know how she’d react to this. I reply with some weak excuse about catching up on my homework tonight as Mack parks in front of my house. G’s response comes almost immediately.