Sidelined

by Kara Bietz

  “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” His fingers flex lightly on my arm, and I get goose bumps.

  I watch his face for a full three seconds before I gently pull my arm back. “I told Ms. Birdie I would get the pans from the shed.”

  My stomach is all mixed up when I leave Julian’s room. I’m thinking about those pictures in the trophy case, Julian’s knee almost touching mine in history this afternoon, the way he snapped at me just now when I was only trying to help.

  It’s dark and dingy in the shed, with boxes stacked to the ceiling and assorted other knickknacks lying around. Behind a box marked JEFFREY in bright blue marker are the steam pans Ms. Birdie needs. I move the box to the floor to get to them. The box isn’t sealed shut, and I catch sight of a newspaper clipping from the Meridien Register on top.

  LOCAL LINEMAN DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

  With three pans in my hand, I hold back the flap and pull the clipping from the box. The article is about Jeffrey Jackson, Julian’s dad.

  “Mr. Jackson played football at Coastal Texas Community College before moving back to Meridien and securing a job as a lineman with Gulf Electric. He knew the risks but enjoyed serving his community, explains Eleanor Jackson, Jeffrey’s mother.” Below the article, there’s a picture of Mr. Jackson with a young Julian on his shoulders, taken outside of Hartwig Field at Crenshaw. Mr. Jackson holds a football in his hands, and Julian is wearing a tiny Guardsmen jersey with the number one on it. “Mr. Jackson and his mother recently purchased the abandoned property at 4859 Main Street in Meridien, with plans to open a youth community center in the future. Ms. Eleanor Jackson had no comment on how that project will now proceed without him. Arrangements for Mr. Jackson are being handled by the Crossroads Church of Meridien,” it reads underneath.

  Buried under the article in the box are the same pictures I found in the trophy case this afternoon. Even in the darkness of the shed, I can spot my father and Julian’s, smiling next to each other. There are a few other pictures, too. Candid shots. In the first one I pick up, my father and Jeffrey Jackson stand with their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders on the football field, sweat pouring down their faces as they smile widely.

  Another newspaper clipping flutters in the slight breeze coming through the open shed door.

  HIGH SCHOOL ATHLETES LEND A HAND WITH LOCAL CHARITY

  Beneath the headline is a picture of my father and Jeffrey, together again. This time, they’re loading stacks of wrapped Christmas presents into the back of a pickup truck.

  “Elijah? Did you find the pans?”

  I hear Julian’s voice calling me from the backyard. I close up the box as quickly as I can and carry the pans outside.

  “Got ’em right here,” I say, my voice shaking. Not only would Julian string me up by my toenails if he thought I was snooping in his father’s things, but something isn’t sitting right with me. If they were friends, how come neither Julian nor I knew about it? Or did Julian know and maybe I’m the only one who didn’t? It doesn’t make any sense.

  “Elijah!” I hear Ms. Birdie call from inside.

  We follow her voice to the guest room. My room. Whatever.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I ask. Julian is right behind me.

  Ms. Birdie is standing by the nightstand with the bottle of Tramadol in her hand.

  My stomach sinks to my knees.

  “Have you been in my medicine cabinet?” she asks, a hint of disbelief in her voice. “I found these in the guest-room drawer when I was looking for more tablecloths.”

  “No, ma’am. I… uh… I don’t know how…” I swallow hard, very aware of Julian behind me.

  “I took them, Birdie,” he says, scooting by me and walking into the room.

  My shoulders relax. The boulder that was forming in my gut eases just a little bit. He’s going to tell Ms. Birdie about his ribs, about the bruise. She’ll talk some sense into him.

  “You took them?”

  “When I was cleaning the bathroom the other day. I meant to throw them out, and I got distracted and didn’t. I threw them in there without thinking,” Julian says. “See, they’re almost expired.” I notice Julian’s pulse pounding at the side of his neck.

  Ms. Birdie turns the pills over in her hand and looks at the label. “Oh, I see that,” she says.

  “I should flush them down the toilet, right?” Julian says, taking the bottle from her hand. “Sorry I left them out like that.”

  “That’s not like you,” she says. “You’ve been under too much pressure lately.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Come on now, boys. Let’s get all of this stuff in the car.” She walks out with a stack of white tablecloths in her arms.

  Julian and I are alone. “Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

  Julian shakes his head. “I only took them once. I’m going to flush them, I promise. But I can’t tell her about my ribs. She’ll make me sit the game out.”

  Exactly is what I want to say, but don’t.

  “She believed my story, though. It’s okay,” Julian says. “You’re not in trouble.”

  I turn to him. “She still thought it was me. She immediately thought I was the one who took the pills.” I can tell by the look on Julian’s face that he doesn’t see the same problem with this as I do.

  “Because they were in your room,” he says slowly.

  “You don’t understand,” I say, hurt. “I’m always the one who gets accused first. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me—whether they were in my room or not, she would have always assumed it was me.”

  “I do understand,” Julian protests. “I told her I put them in there accidentally, and she believed me. You don’t have anything to worry about. I promise.”

  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain in a way that he’d understand. I heard what everyone said about me at bingo. I know what they all really think of me. I thought maybe Ms. Birdie was the exception to that, but apparently I was wrong. Julian will never understand what it’s like to always be the first one accused when something goes wrong.

  I saw the way people used to look at me and Frankie out of the corner of their eyes when we lived here before. I thought maybe disappearing for a few years would help that. I thought people would have had time to form a new opinion. Or at least be open to getting to know me, rather than thinking of me only as Eric Vance’s no-good son. A screwup, just like his father.

  And I know that during those weird middle school years, all those snap judgments might have been justified. I wonder if I had never broken that window, or if word hadn’t gotten around that I was breaking into the office to steal money, I could’ve just been Elijah the football player. Or Elijah, Coley’s uncle.

  Or Elijah, Julian’s boyfriend.

  I wonder what that would feel like.

  · seventeen ·

  JULIAN

  “Come sit with us!” Nate calls to Elijah as we all carry our plates, piled high with Birdie’s spaghetti, to a table near the front of the Crossroads Church multipurpose room.

  Elijah just waves at Nate and offers up a completely fake smile before sitting down at a table near the back. By himself.

  “What’s eating him?” Bucky asks, tucking a napkin into his shirt collar.

  “Eh, who knows? Maybe he just wants to be alone,” I say.

  But maybe I do know.

  I don’t understand what the big deal was about Birdie and the pills. She believed my little white lie, and Elijah didn’t get into any trouble. But apparently he’s still upset enough about it to spend the team dinner at a table by himself.

  “Hey, should we all dress the same for the Guardettes’ dance tomorrow night?” Darien asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  Nate snorts. “Are we in seventh grade and someone forgot to tell me?”

  “Oh, come on, I just thought it would be fun. You know all the girls are going to wear matching outfits,” Darien laughs. “Besides, I have no idea how I’m supposed to dress for an ’80s dance. I don’t want to loo
k stupid all by myself.”

  “Have you heard of Google?” Nate laughs again. “Jeez, Murphy. Are you sure you didn’t get knocked around a little too hard in that tackle drill this afternoon?”

  We all tease Darien mercilessly, making sure to give him as much wrong outfit information as possible for tomorrow’s ’80s dance.

  “Slicked-back hair, white T-shirt, black leather jacket,” Bucky says.

  “Bell-bottoms, gold chains, and a flowered shirt unbuttoned to your navel. I have at least three you can borrow,” I tell him with as straight a face as I can manage.

  “You guys can go to hell.” Darien laughs. “I’ll just ask my dad.”

  Bucky begins regaling us with a story about the cows getting out of the gate of his family’s farm during a thunderstorm a couple of weeks ago. It apparently took four neighbors to corral Bessie in the middle of Old Barn Road while thunder rumbled and the street started to flood.

  We’re all cracking up loudly over our plates of pasta and salad when I catch a glimpse of Elijah sitting alone across the room, watching us. My chest aches watching him watch us.

  Team dinners always feel like they stretch on for hours and hours, but that’s probably only because Birdie volunteers me as a one-man cleanup crew when it’s all over. Scrubbing out those giant pans caked with red sauce in the church kitchen takes forever, but at least this time, Elijah is here helping to wipe down the tables. By the time we load the washed pans and tablecloths back into the trunk of Birdie’s car, I’m exhausted.

  Elijah doesn’t speak to anyone on the way home other than to say, “It was good, thank you,” when Birdie asks him if he enjoyed his first varsity team dinner.

  Part of me wants to knock on his door after Birdie goes to bed. As angry as I’ve been, I still didn’t like to see him looking that dejected.

  But instead of knocking on his door, I lie on my bed staring at my ceiling, thinking of all the things I’d like to ask him.

  Hey, remember when we kissed? That was kind of important to me. Apparently it wasn’t to you?

  Nope, that wasn’t going to work.

  You basically ripped my heart out when you rejected me and then disappeared without saying goodbye. Are we just never going to talk about it?

  Mmm… probably not the best choice, either.

  Maybe I could just write it down.

  Dear Elijah, You broke my heart.

  Dear Elijah, I loved you.

  Dear Elijah, Was it more important to me than it was to you?

  I fall asleep drafting letters in my head that I know I’ll never write.

  On Friday morning, Elijah’s bedroom door is wide open, and I don’t see him in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Elijah?” I ask Birdie.

  “He left a note that said he was grabbing some extra time in the weight room. He didn’t tell you?” she asks.

  “No. I guess he just forgot,” I say, checking my backpack for my homework and supplies.

  I spend the rest of the day looking for him, but I don’t see him until sixth-period history.

  He slides into the room just as the bell rings and chooses a desk a few feet from mine. The back of the classroom is empty except for the two of us.

  “Hey,” I call to him as Mrs. Nguyen straightens papers on her desk and waits for the class to settle.

  “Hey,” he says, not lifting his head from the crook of his arm while he writes in his notebook.

  “You okay? I haven’t seen you all day,” I whisper across to him.

  “Doing fine,” he answers, flashing me the quickest and fakest smile I’ve ever seen.

  I decide to ignore it. “Camille wants us to help her out tonight at the ’80s dance. She’s handling the ticket table from six to seven. You up for it?” I ask him.

  He lowers his eyes back to his notebook. “I kind of forgot about the dance, to tell you the truth.”

  “The whole football team has to go,” I remind him. “Coach Marcus’s rules.”

  “I know,” he tells me. “It’s just… I’m not feeling so hot.…”

  Mrs. Nguyen taps her dry-erase marker on her desk, cutting our conversation short. I try not to think too much about Elijah and focus on my schoolwork, but it’s pretty useless. I keep stealing glances in his direction all through class. He doesn’t look sick. Just sad.

  He doesn’t wait for me after class, and nongame Fridays are always spent in the weight room instead of on the field. He spends the entire two hours at the pull-up bar and ignoring everyone around him. I watch him while I’m lifting with Darien and Nate, but I don’t talk to him. It’s clear he needs space.

  I don’t want to admit it, but my gut somehow misses him. I’m so mixed up. One minute I hate him for abandoning me, and the next, when he’s looking at me or putting ground-up parsley on my skin or even just smiling, I can’t deny that there’s still something there. At least on my end, that is.

  It’s not until I’m getting myself ready for the ’80s dance that there’s a soft knock on my door.

  “Julian?”

  I open the door and see Elijah standing there, gripping the door frame with one hand. “Hey,” he says, shoving a hand into his pocket.

  “Hey. I didn’t see you after the weight room.”

  “Just came back here when I was done.” He shrugs, looking at the floor.

  “Aren’t you going to get ready for the dance?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to go,” he says, setting his jaw.

  “How come?” I sit back down on my bed and go back to trying to tight-roll my jeans. I feel like I’m cutting my circulation off in my ankles. How did kids in the ’80s even do this every day?

  “I’m still not feeling that great.” He shrugs. He looks like he wants to come into the room, but he hesitates at the door, biting his lip. I see his fingers grip the door frame tighter. I look at him there, in a Crenshaw football T-shirt and gym shorts, his socks slouched around his ankles.

  I can’t pinpoint how I know, but I know he’s lying. I study his face, pinched and sad-looking as he stands in my doorway. “I can let you borrow something to wear if you want,” I tell him, even though we are nowhere near the same size. Elijah’s shoulders are much broader than mine. “Do you have any pants with you?”

  “Just the khakis I wore last night,” he says, letting go of the door frame and hesitantly coming into my room.

  “Those will work. Let’s just find you a shirt, then. I think we wear the same size shoes, too.” I open my closet and pull out a bright green polo shirt that’s always been too big for me to wear. “Try this on.” I throw the shirt to him.

  He yanks off his T-shirt and I watch his abs tense. I catch his eye, and the corner of his mouth turns up. “Thanks for this,” he says.

  He pulls the polo over his head, and it’s pretty snug around his chest. His biceps are stretching the fabric a little bit, too. “How does it look?” he asks, looking down at the shirt and smoothing it over his stomach.

  “Here, let me just,” I stand in front of him and pop the collar of the shirt up. “Much more ’80s,” I say, straightening the shoulders. A piece of Elijah’s hair falls from behind his ear. I tuck it back into place without thinking.

  “Oh,” he says, his cheeks turning pink. He says it so softly, it’s almost more of a sweet sigh.

  Oh. My hand lingers near his collar, a warm feeling spreading through my gut and up my spine. I meet his eyes. His lips part and he looks back at me. “Thank you,” he says.

  I clear my throat. “I’ll find you some shoes.” I turn quickly back to the closet.

  Birdie wants to take our picture on the front porch. I’ve given Elijah a pair of sunglasses, and I’m wearing identical ones. “Don’t you look like two peas in a pod!” Birdie exclaims, pointing her phone at us. “Let me give you a ride to the school. You don’t need to be sweating all over those outfits, walking up there.”

  I’m thankful that Elijah is sitting in the back seat instead of me, because I’m not sure my stomach
could handle staring at the back of his head right now. I’m still imagining what his hair felt like in my fingers a few minutes ago.

  Birdie turns onto Main Street, and her Bluetooth picks up her phone. Barry Manilow bellows through the car at an alarming volume.

  “Oh, I just love this song,” Birdie says, singing along.

  My face burns. I don’t know why I’m suddenly very aware of Elijah. What does he think of Barry Manilow blasting through the open windows while we drive to Crenshaw? Does he think I’m a huge loser, needing my grandmother to chauffeur me around? Why do I even care?

  I catch sight of him in the rearview mirror. He’s mouthing the words along with Barry and Birdie.

  “… if you wanna believe it can be daybreak…”

  He sees me watching him, and a shy smile spreads across his face.

  “You know this song?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Don’t stop singing on account of me,” I tell him, only half joking.

  “Come on, Ms. Birdie, let’s bring it home,” he says, raising his eyebrows at me and leaning forward in his seat.

  “Come on and let it shine, shine, shine, all around the world!” Birdie lets her falsetto fly, and I can barely hear Elijah, but I know he’s singing along with her.

  Birdie laughs. “Julian never sings Barry with me,” she says, glancing at Elijah in the mirror. “We might have to keep you around, Mr. Elijah.”

  Birdie pulls the car into the circle drive by the gym doors. A few kids are milling around in the parking lot, and I spot Camille near the door. She’s wearing pink leg warmers over her jeans and a rainbow-colored sweatshirt with the neck cut out. Her hair is pulled into a high side ponytail.

  “You look amazing!” she squeals when she sees Elijah step out of the car. “I’m so glad you decided to come.” She hugs him tight around the neck.

  “What about me? Don’t I look amazing?” I ask, my arms outspread.

  Camille laughs. “Yes, Juls. You look just like the pictures of my dad in middle school that I found in the attic this summer.”