by Jason Gurley
“Pfft,” I sneered. “You’re the one who—”
But Cece was off and running. “She came from this town in Oregon, right on the coast. Anchor something. Bend? Anchor Bend. We all thought she was the prototypical Hot Girl. She’d steal the homecoming king right off the stage, you know?”
“But?”
“She was just in her own world. Perfectly nice if you talked to her, but she didn’t need you to. Seemed like she didn’t want you to. Whole time, none of us knew she was cracking skulls on a roller rink in Monterey twice a week.” She shook her head. “She’s so not what I thought she was. Turns out she has a big sister. Just as much of a knockout. She’s an extra on some show in LA.”
“But Ada doesn’t want to be a star, I take it.”
“No, actually,” Cece said. “She wants to write books. She didn’t even want to tell me she writes, but she does. Like, she’s working on her first novel. Her first novel, Vanessa. She’s seventeen. She already knows nobody will take her seriously.”
“Because of that pretty face.”
“Because of that pretty everything,” Cece corrected. “I mean, authors come in all shapes and sizes, right? Statistically, at least a few have to look like … her.”
“You should go down there. Wish her a good show.”
She whirled on me. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Nessa. Because I’d try to say Hey, good luck, and instead I’d probably blurt out HEY I LIKE YOU IN THAT WAY, and I’d have to live with it. Forever.” She thought about that, then added: “Which probably wouldn’t be long.”
“That whole time on the bus, you didn’t tell her you, like, want to eat her heart and carry her inside you for ever and ever?”
“God, wouldn’t that be nice.” She tucked her knees against her chest. It was getting cold. “No, of course not. I figured she was dumb, right? Because of that stereotype about how models are as dumb as horses. But nope, it turns out she’s smarter than all the horses put together. And I’m the dumb one for thinking she wasn’t.”
“Hey. She told you about her book thing. She told you about her secret roller derby assassin games. She gave you a secret. Two, in fact.”
“Yes,” Cece replied. “But the only secret I could give in return is the one secret I can’t tell her.”
“Would it be so bad? I’m just saying.”
“And I’m just saying: The best thing for all of us is if I keep my mouth shut. Then I’ll go to college, and I won’t have to leave her behind—that’s the best-case scenario—or spend my senior year embarrassed and miserable. Which is the worst and most likely case.”
“Your best case needs some work,” I suggested. “She could always choose to go away with you. To college. Writing programs are everywhere, aren’t they?”
“But then she’d find some beautiful writer to fall for. And that would be that.”
“Tell me one writer who wouldn’t want to spend her life with a Supreme Court justice,” I said. “You’re selling yourself way short.”
“And you’re overestimating me.”
“Someone’s got to.”
“I don’t think you know how destructive overestimation can be.”
“And I don’t think you—” I stopped. “You know, can we just watch the game? No, scratch that. I’ll watch the game. And you can just go on staring longingly at Ada Lin’s very intelligent ass.”
While Cece did that, I watched the field. And the stands, and the parking lot. But Zach—unsurprisingly, I knew—didn’t show. He’d told me he wouldn’t, right after he fumbled that excuse out of nowhere. Look, I got that he was a nervous kid, maybe a bit more introverted than the average high school boy, but “a family thing” was a particularly unimaginative lie.
The dude wasn’t into me. Maybe not even in a friendly way. Was a friendly kind of into what I even wanted?
I could feel a coastal wind sweep over the field. Cece huddled against me for warmth, our half spat already almost forgotten. I elbowed her gently. “Sure you want to do that?” She looked confused, so I nodded toward the band pit, where Ada—who had noticed Cece scoot closer to me—turned away quickly.
“Oh, shit,” Cece swore. “Shit, shit, balls.”
“You know,” I said, “when I was little, Mom would make brownies. And I discovered that I could roll them around in my palm until they turned into these little balls. I called them poo balls.” I nudged Cece, who wasn’t really listening. “But that’s not what you meant by—and I quote—‘Shit, shit, balls.’”
“Now I really do have to go talk to her, don’t I?”
A sudden cheer erupted from the opposing bleachers. The PA crackled, and our announcer reported that our quarterback had just been sacked. Again. “That’s four sacks for San Luis Obispo,” he said drily. “Rattlers, we’re not even halfway through the first quarter. Let’s see if we can start playing football, instead of whatever you boys are doing down there.”
* * *
The Rattlers didn’t improve, and by the third quarter, their fans—their parents, mostly—began streaming out of the stands. Cece’s parents called up to her from below. Her father twirled the car keys on one finger. Cece still hadn’t talked to Ada.
She grabbed my arm. “Talk to her for me. Tell her I’m not into you.”
“Not that I’m not perfectly nice,” I said. “A catch, some might say.”
Cece shook her head. “Never mind. Don’t do it. Don’t talk to her. That would be bad.”
After she left, I drifted down to the concession booth. Marlena, from my AP English class, worked the window. “Heya, Loch Nessa,” she said. “I’m about to shut down. What do you want?”
“Cocoa?”
Marlena turned away, fussing with packets and cups, and I hugged myself against the wind. I didn’t even notice Zach arrive. He was suddenly just there, at the corner of the concession shed, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, cheeks pink.
“Gah,” I said, clasping my hands to my heart. “You could kill a girl, Zach. Jesus.”
For a guy who didn’t talk or smile terribly much, he sure carried his feelings in plain sight, if you knew how to read them. And I was learning. It was all in his eyes. He half smiled, mostly with those eyes. His lips were thin and chapped.
Marlena put a Styrofoam cup on the window ledge. I screwed my face up and said, “One more? If you could?”
She looked toward Zach, then back at me, and raised one eyebrow wordlessly. But she complied, and when she returned, I reached for my pocket. Marlena said, “I already closed the till. My treat.”
“Thanks, Marlie.” I scooped up both cups and passed one to Zach. Marlena closed the window, and we started toward the stands.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Dude,” I said. “It’s like the Arctic tundra out here.” I grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie and ruffled it. “And you’re wearing this.”
He nodded, then took a slow sip.
“You got here just in time,” I said. “Listen closely—you can probably hear our death rattle. No, wait. That was two quarters ago.”
I could feel Mom’s and Aaron’s inquisitive gaze upon me as Zach followed me up the bleachers. I tried not to look in their direction. When we sat down, I made no pretense of watching the game. Nobody likes to watch a slaughter, anyway.
“So you made it,” I said. “Family thing go okay?”
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. I’d hit a nerve.
“Subject change,” I said. “See those two people down there? Guy with the scarf?” Below us, Aaron was looping his scarf around Mom’s neck. “They’re a couple of dorks, but they’re okay.” Zach looked and nodded, but he didn’t say anything. So I cleared my throat, and I said, “I’m sorry I ask so many questions.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I tell you something?” I asked. “Like, you’ll know I’m saying it because I like you, and not because I’m a jerk?” He didn’t answer, but he turned
toward me, just a little. “Are you okay? You look—I don’t know. Like you maybe haven’t slept in a while.”
I wondered how often anyone asked him things like that. If he was all right. Hungry. Happy. Maybe nobody did, but I hoped that wasn’t true.
Finally, he said, “Just … tired.”
“Long day at work,” I observed.
“I keep trying for more hours.”
“How many do you work now?”
“Too few.”
This really wasn’t going how I’d hoped. Then again, what had I expected?
“Okay,” I said. I clapped my hands, like Mom did when she was trying to lift a mood with sheer brute force. “What did you want to be when you were little?”
“What?”
“Fine. I’ll start. When I was four, I wanted to be a firehouse.” He looked at me skeptically. “You heard me right. Not a firefighter. A firehouse.”
He made an odd coughing sound that I thought might have been almost a laugh.
“Mom said I really liked that firehouses have bells. And poles to slide on. And spotted dogs.”
He shook his head. “So your life’s goal,” he said, maybe warming up a little, “was to grow up, somehow turn into a physical building that a dog could live in with a bunch of people who slide down poles.”
I leaned forward and whispered, “Not was. Still is. Don’t think I haven’t been doing my research.”
“Were all Santa Barbara kids that…”
“Moronic? Nope. Just me. Okay. Your turn.”
“Four years old,” he said. “I don’t know if this is specifically from when I was four, but—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got to hear this.”
“—but I remember I wanted to be a plant waterer.”
I blinked. “A plant waterer.”
“Yeah.”
“Like, a botanist?”
“Nope. I remember this kid who was allowed to water all the plants in my kindergarten class because he was so responsible. And I just wanted to be him. I wanted to be the plant waterer.”
The hometown crowd, sparse as it was now, surged to its feet, stomping and cheering. On the field, a wiry second-string Rattler sprinted madly for the end zone. The Tigers offense raced for him, but for once, our boys remembered how to protect the ballcarrier.
I moved a little closer to Zach and felt him look down at me. He didn’t move away.
The runner was fast. He seemed utterly afraid, and totally surprised, to find himself in his current position.
“Go!” I shouted.
This kid wasn’t going to get creamed. He was going to score. And while a touchdown wouldn’t save the game, a little burst of defiance was good for the soul. As we watched the kid cross the thirty, I looped my arm through Zach’s. I swear I felt a shiver run through him; it made me smile to myself. The runner plunged forward, crossing the twenty, the ten—and from nowhere, a Tiger rose up and took him down, hard. So hard the boy’s helmet carved a furrow in the field.
The two teams took their positions at the line, except for the runner, who still lay on his back, chest heaving, staring skyward. He clapped both hands against his helmet, then held them out at the sky, the universal sign for ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT. Tapped out, he let his arms fall to the ground.
Zach just said quietly, “Know how he feels.”
As the game ended, we walked slowly down the bleachers. On the field, a bunch of kids tossed around a football while their parents stood around, chatting idly. I turned to Zach, and before I realized what was happening, he flew to the sidelines and snatched a toddler away from the field. Four boys went down in a heap at his feet a moment later, wrestling one another over an escaped ball.
“Did you just—?” I started, but two young parents darted over. The father lifted the girl out of Zach’s arms, then swept his wife and child away to the parking lot. The toddler waved at Zach over her father’s shoulder. Zach waved back.
“That was ungrateful,” I said, when he returned to me. “You just saved their kid from getting splattered.”
He shrugged. “They don’t know me. It’s okay.”
I heard a whistle and turned toward the stands. Aaron and Mom were looking in my direction. Aaron mimed a steering wheel: Are you riding with us? I replied by walking my fingers through the air. He smiled and gave a friendly wave to Zach, who lifted his hand. Mom stood there a little too long, shifting her gaze from Zach to me and back again.
“They seem nice,” Zach said. A hollow bang sounded from above the field, and he flinched.
“Just the sodium lights,” I said. The tall lights faded quickly, ticking as they cooled. “Can I walk you home?”
“That’s okay,” he said. “But I’ll walk with you awhile.”
“What was the family thing?” I asked. “If I can ask.”
He grunted. “It’s not a big deal. My brother had a thing. I wanted to do something for him.”
“But it didn’t work out?”
Another grunt. I could feel him closing up again. I searched for something else to talk about. In the distance, a fog formed in the hills, emphasized by the construction-site lights at Costa Celeste.
“You know,” I said, nodding toward the resort, “if that thing ever becomes real, it’ll ruin this town.”
“Ruin it how?”
“It’ll be the start of turning Orilly into a tourist trap. We’ll get bead shops, a microbrewery on every corner. Outdoor jazz festivals. Farmers markets that are less about the farm, more about the market.”
He considered this. “Seems like Orilly could use that kind of stuff.”
“No, listen,” I said. “Once, my parents took me on this cruise. I was … eight? The ship was huge, basically a floating city. In the middle of the night, I’d stand on the deck and look up. My father always told me you can see the stars best when you’re at sea. Except that stupid ship was so bright that it washed out the whole sky.”
“Couldn’t see anything, huh?”
“Just the moon,” I complained. “On the Bortle scale, the ship would be a nine.”
“I’m sorry, the what scale?”
I explained about Bortle’s Dark-Sky Scale, a system of measuring light pollution. “Most big cities are a nine. You can only really see the moon, or maybe a star cluster or two. The darkest sites are a one. There aren’t too many of those left. I’ve never been to one. Supposedly there the sky is so vivid that the Milky Way is not only clearly visible, but it casts shadows. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Right now, Orilly’s a little like a quiet, dark boat in the middle of the ocean. Maybe between, like, a four or five on the Bortle scale. So at night I can see almost anything I want to see. But throw some luxury hotels and golf courses and nightclubs into the mix—”
“And Orilly becomes a cruise ship.” But his tone made me think he disagreed. “I see your point—but that’s really just about you. Not about the tourist thing.” He kicked at a rock, and it went skittering ahead of us into the dark. “Tourists mean money. Money means people buy more things. That means more business at the market, and I could get more hours. Maybe overtime, even.” He nodded toward the glow of the resort. “Heck, I could even get a job there. Caddy for rich people who tip well.” He added quietly: “My brother wouldn’t have to dive, maybe.”
And there it was. I saw just how oblivious I’d been. Below the resort, I could see lights moving on the highway. The same highway that split our town in two, firmly placing us on opposite sides. Orilly was a different place for him altogether. He was right: I was just thinking about how change would annoy me, not how change would change things for me.
I didn’t like the way it felt to realize this. So I changed the subject. “Was the application hard?”
“Application,” he said. “Oh. No. I don’t know. I haven’t filled it out. I don’t know if I will.”
“They always seem scarier than they really are. I mean, those essay requirements are th
e worst. What are we supposed to write about? We’re supposed to have all these big opinions, right? But I haven’t lived enough to have any big opinions.”
He laughed at that. “You know just enough to know you don’t want the tourist trap in your town.”
“Okay,” I confessed. “That’s fair.” His laugh delighted me.
“So you already finished yours, then?”
“Yeah. It stresses me out to put things off. I applied early decision, so now I just … wait.”
“Till when?”
“December? I think.”
He whistled. “That’s fast.”
“Hey, how did you even see that little girl? I didn’t even notice her.”
He shrugged. “I saw her down there during the game. All wandering around in front of the stands. I kept thinking, if that were my kid … I probably wouldn’t sit next to the sidelines of a football game. All those clumsy, unpredictable guys running around like appliances gone mad. Not with a little girl that size.”
“So you just, what, watched out for her?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you can see these things coming. I do this thing, I guess. I can’t help it. I just think of the worst outcomes of everything.”
“Ugh. That’s so dire.”
“Mama used to say I was like her. She always imagined the worst, too. She said it was so she was prepared for it, no matter what happened. But I don’t even think that’s it. I think I just…”
He trailed off, but I thought I knew what he didn’t say.
“You expect it.”
“Yeah, almost.” He looked at me sideways. “Man, that’s so bad, isn’t it?”
“Maybe? I like your mom’s take on it better than yours.”
“Yeah, me, too. She was smart. Is smart.”
“Maybe you can practice seeing the other side of it, though. Not just the bad outcomes. Not just seeing everything through such a dark lens.” I brightened. “You ever see Powers of Ten?”
“What is that, like some teen-superhero-squad movie?”
I laughed. “Hardly! But now I want to see that.”
