by Mariah Dietz
Arlo grins.
“He does have a point. All the other couples were separated, but you and Rose are on the same team. You know what that means?” Luis asks.
Lincoln doesn’t work to hide his smirk as Paxton yells out like he’s just scored a winning touchdown.
Arlo grins. “Good thing red is your color.” He winks before saluting me and turning to Olivia.
“You guys are assholes,” I tell the group collectively.
They chuckle in response as we go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, I’m cleaning along the fence line with a small group of kids nearby who have been slinging questions about football at me. Most of them have bored of the subject and are now focused on finding the most disgusting piece of trash to throw away.
“Do you have to practice every day?” I look beside me at the kid Luis bet me was going to be a pain in our ass and see from his nametag that his name is Logan.
“Mostly.”
“Does that part suck?” Logan grabs a stray shoe that’s mostly buried under a pile of leaves and shakes his head before tossing it away in his garbage sack.
“It sucks the most at the beginning of the season. Coaches push the hardest then, kind of as a warning for what will come. Or if someone on your team breaks your team rules, that always blows.”
“My mom worries that if I play, I’ll get hurt,” he says.
“It’s a fair concern.”
Logan swings his gaze to me, shock and betrayal shining in his eyes.
I shrug off his reaction and move down the fence. Logan follows me, waiting for some sort of explanation. “My buddy had to have knee surgery last year after blowing out his ACL, and we played against a team where a guy broke his back and can’t walk anymore. This sport is full contact and it can be brutal. My mom worries about concussions just like I’m sure yours does. It’s because it’s real. They’re all very plausible outcomes.”
“Does it ever scare you that you might get hurt?”
“Not while I’m playing. When you get scared, that’s when you make mistakes, and that’s when you get hurt.”
“How’d your mom get over it?”
“She didn’t.”
Logan follows me farther along the fence, helping me collect the mass number of plastic bags that have gotten tangled around the fencing. “My coach thinks I’m good enough to play in high school.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to crack a joke because most high schools here don’t cut students from their teams, but I can tell Logan has taken this compliment to heart. “That’s awesome—if it’s what you want to do.”
“I kind of like basketball, too,” he says.
“Yeah? What about video games?”
He kicks a rock that’s sticking up out of the ground. “They’re okay.”
“Yeah? You don’t have a favorite?”
Logan shrugs again.
In the distance, Rose frowns as she shoves what appears to be an old diaper in her trash bag.
“You know her?” Logan asks.
“What twelve-year-old doesn’t like video games?” I counter.
“She’s hot,” he returns.
“She’s too old for you.”
He scoffs. “In ten years, she won’t be.”
I bite out a laugh that makes Logan scowl.
“What? Age is just a number. Unless … you do like her…”
“What position do you play in football? Offense? Defense?”
“You really don’t want to talk about her, do you?”
Maybe Luis was right. Maybe I’m going to lose forty bucks. “I thought we were talking football?”
“Is she your ex?”
“When you get a little older, you’ll realize girls are far more complicated than you ever thought.”
Logan drops his trash and rubs his palms together. “Lay it on me. I’m great at this. I have two older sisters.”
I shake my head. “I’m not looking for advice.”
“You’ve looked at her no less than fifty times since we’ve been out here.”
His estimation probably isn’t far off. “She doesn’t want a boyfriend.” I don’t know why I tell him this. I haven’t even laid out all of the facts with Luis, and here I am, spilling it all to a stranger—a twelve-year-old stranger, no less.
“She’s lying,” he says automatically.
I blow out a laugh. “She doesn’t date.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “What makes you think something happened? Maybe she just doesn’t like to date.”
“Well, then you need to find out.” He gives me a look as if I should already know this, and then shoves a lost glove in his trash bag. “Something obviously happened. My sister once dated a guy who’s beat her. We didn’t know for months, but after she finally got out of the relationship, she didn’t want to date anymore because she had some serious trust issues.”
My gaze cuts to Rose, my thoughts spiraling as Logan’s story replays in my head. “I have too much on my plate this year to worry about it. Even if I wanted to date someone, I wouldn’t have the time.”
Logan twists his face like he’s tasted something bitter. “I hope you do a better job lying to her when you say that.”
A dozen excuses sit on my tongue like missiles, but before I can decide which one to deploy first, my teammate, Tyler Banks, approaches with a garbage sack and a frown. “Ian,” he says with a nod.
“Hey, Banks, meet Logan.”
Tyler offers his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ah, man. I bet you don’t even have to try,” Logan says.
Tyler looks from Logan to me and then back to Logan. “Try what?”
“Impressing the ladies. All you’ve got to do is talk, and they probably line up,” he says, referring to Tyler’s British accent.
Tyler shakes his head. “Only one girl for me.” He turns, glancing across the park.
“The blonde?” Logan asks.
Tyler turns back to him and nods. “That’s the one.”
“He makes time,” Logan says dismissively as he grabs his sack and moves farther down the fence line to gather more trash.
Tyler looks at me with his brows raised. “I don’t know what I just walked into… Did I say the wrong thing?”
I shake my head. “Beats the hell out of me. All I know is we have two more hours and ten acres of trash to pick up.”
Tyler winces. “Ten bloody acres.” He glances across the park again.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He nods. “Chloe just had a shit day.”
His obvious distress only confirms what I’ve been saying—dating someone is a distraction that I don’t have time for.
Rose
Trash.
Of the four groups, trash was my last pick. No one wants to be outside in the Northwest picking up garbage that’s been stewing for all four seasons and is now infected with mold, mildew, and bugs.
Fall dances in the breeze, leaving a cool trail along my bare arms and the back of my neck as I stuff another cigarette butt in my half-filled garbage sack. I wish I’d brought a sweatshirt, but I clearly hadn’t given the situation enough thought, hence my nice top and new jeans.
My brain is frazzled today. Maybe it’s because the day started with Chantay and beer, which led to too many thoughts about the differences between summer to last year, or perhaps it’s because my mom has been on my mind so much today, something that brings comfort along with a dumpster of regrets and wishes. Or maybe it’s the freshness of the school year paired with new professors, courses, and a horrible editor.
I expel a deep breath and glance around to see if anyone else from our group was unlucky enough to draw trash. I need a distraction. Desperately. I would happily be willing to talk with Raegan about her love of the ocean and dolphins or to Olivia about the children’s book she’s been writing. Hell, I’ll even dissect Paxton’s relationship with his crazy-ass girlfriend, Candace—anything to get out of my thoughts a
nd onto safer grounds.
“Can you believe how many people smoke?” a girl asks, drawing my attention. She looks maybe twelve, with short brown hair that’s wavy and wild and in desperate need of a straightener and some product. Her hair momentarily distracts me from her gangly frame that is all arms and legs and knobby knees.
Anything but a kid, that is.
“Did you know cigarettes cost around fifty cents each? I’ve probably picked up a hundred dollars’ worth of cigarette butts already,” she continues, either shockingly bad at math or disturbingly accurate.
Obligation to reply sits heavily on my shoulders as I reach for a single, lost mitten. “I guess we all have our vices, right?”
She stares at me, two giant brown eyes that are too big for her face.
I stare back.
She was talking to me, right?
“Couldn’t people choose a vice that doesn’t stink, pollute, and kill everyone around them?”
Logic. Adults think kids have endless imaginations, which prevents them from being logical when, in reality, I’m convinced that their imaginations allow them to see logic in the clearest form.
“I have an uncle who used to smoke. He dropped a cigarette butt on the carpet, and it burnt through the carpet. My mom was furious.” She cracks a smile that brings joy to her features. She’s beautiful in an innocent and sincere way that reminds me of weekend mornings with Olivia, where our hair is a rat’s nest, and we’re wearing pajamas and Friday’s makeup, and neither of us cares or judges the other. “I’m Bree, by the way,” she adds, pointing to the nametag on her shirt.
“Rose,” I tell her.
She gives another brief smile and then puts her head down and works to gather the rest of the pile of cigarette butts she happened upon.
I look up, ready to move on to another area, realizing I’d prefer to be alone with my thoughts when I spot Ian. He’s beside Tyler and a kid wearing a red sweatshirt and red hat, talking and laughing like they’re old friends.
That’s my role.
I’m the friendly one, the outgoing one who doesn’t know the definition of a stranger.
I’m the friendly one.
Ian’s the quiet introvert.
But this is all an afterthought to the painful reality that he’s on trash cleanup and knowingly chose to avoid me.
I turn back, heading over to Bree. “What grade are you in?”
Her eyes are suspicious, her brow lowered. “Seventh.”
I try to think back to when I was in the seventh grade and what held my interest.
Boys.
Boys.
I tasted my first cigarette in an attempt to look cool for a boy—an eighth-grader who I had a crush on had invited me into the woods after school with two of his buddies, a can of warm Pabst beer, and a half-filled pack of cigarettes he’d stolen from his mom. Looking back now, I realize I was a prime example as to why adults don’t think kids can apply logic. I was distracted with how to impress this older boy and utterly oblivious to the idiocy of hanging out with three boys alone, in the woods, without anyone knowing where I was.
Seventh grade kind of sucked, actually, and my conversation skills are sucking even more. “Do you like school?”
She shrugs and picks up a crinkled plastic bag. “It’s okay.”
I wonder where Olivia is and which of the four groups she was assigned. Maybe I can trade someone?
“You don’t really want to be here, do you?” Bree asks, her eye trained on me again.
I shake my head. “Not really. I mean, this is great, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not exactly mentor-ship material.”
She smirks. “All you’re doing is cleaning up a park. Are you qualified to pick up trash? You look like you are…”
“Oh, judgment, my old friend. I’ve missed you.”
Bree scoffs. “Are you in college?”
I nod. “I’m a senior.”
“What do you want to be when you graduate?”
“I want to open a yoga studio.”
I can tell that my answer surprises her because she pulls her head back and blinks. “You’re going to college to open a yoga studio?”
“I want to start an empire.”
“What’s an empire?”
“I want to own several studios and open a line of products and at-home programs.”
Bree doesn’t look impressed, a confused look still lingering on her face. “Why?”
“Why not?”
She shrugs. “I can’t get into the whole yoga thing.”
I want to tell her this is because she’s twelve but refrain from doing so.
“I mean, drinking kale and wearing skin tight pants, and listening to that boring music.” Her face pinches. “No thanks.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask.
She shrugs. “A mom.”
“A mom?”
Bree nods. “And the president.”
“I don’t know if that’s a big enough goal. You should probably aim higher.”
She laughs. “I want to help people. I want to make the world a better place.”
And without even meaning to, Bree cuts a hole directly into my past, reminding me of the days when I thought I could make a difference and help people in a more meaningful way.
“You should,” I tell her.
Her brown eyes focus on me, confidence radiating in her straight shoulders and raised chin. “I will.”
3
Ian
It’s only Wednesday, and it feels like an entire month has passed. The beginning of the season is always long, but the first week of classes makes it seem endless.
“Hey!” I stop, hearing Pax’s voice. He jogs toward me from where he parked. “Are you on your way to the offices?”
I nod. “I’m meeting with Danielson before practice.”
“Yeah. The President and I are heading over to meet with Craig and Harris now.” He blows out a belated breath from jogging over. “This year feels different.”
“I think it’s because the team is so young.”
His eyebrows draw up as he nods. “They are young. I’m already sick and tired of their bullshit. So much arrogance.” He wipes the back of his wrist across his brow like we’re on the field. “That and it feels like regardless of how many wins we have, it won’t be enough because we’ve already been the undefeated team. How do you top that?”
“By doing it twice.”
He laughs. “Dance, monkey, dance.” Something pulls his attention to the side for a moment as we continue through the parking lot, and when he looks back at me, a note of seriousness has washed away his humor. “Dude, I’m not trying to pry, but I know Arlo can be dense as a brick, and so I just want you to know that if you’re not comfortable having Rose come to the barbecue this Saturday at our house, or other parties and shit, I can talk to him. She doesn’t have to be there. We haven’t picked up food, and it’s already going to be tight getting everyone in the house and backyard as it is. It will be easy to make an excuse.”
I’d forgotten about the barbecue that he, Arlo, and Lincoln had planned for after our first home game. “It’s whatever. I’m completely neutral when it comes to Rose.”
His eyes pinch with doubt.
“How about we move the party from your place to mine? Celebrate our first home game win someplace where we don’t have to worry about overcrowding,” I suggest.
“I don’t know if that solves your Rose problem? Arlo will keep inviting her along.”
I shake my head. “There is no Rose problem. If she wants to come, I’m okay with it.” I shrug the thought off, knowing the chances of Rose attending will be slim. Luis told me she spent a decent amount of time with them all over the summer, but I’m confident he was elaborating for dramatic effect and to get in my head.
“Are you sure? Saturday is in three days.”
“No sweat.” Three years ago, Cassie moved away for college, and shortly after, my parents moved to Italy, leaving me t
o live in the mansion they purchased after they came into so much money. “I’ll see you at practice.”
Pax nods before bumping his fist against mine and then patting my shoulder. “See you, man.”
My thoughts are circling Rose as I make my way to Coach Danielson’s office, recalling the surprise in her jade-colored eyes when she looked at me on Monday and the instant retraction that followed. How she diligently kept her distance from me during the entire park cleanup.
It feels like summer all over again. I spent the first five weeks of summer trying to forget her, and then right when I was on the brink of accomplishing the difficult task, it was as though she sensed it, and she called me.
I almost didn’t answer.
But that undeniable pull she has on me had me tapping the green button on the screen of my phone before I could talk myself out of it.
It was late in Rome, the nine-hour time difference between us something I’d become familiar with since my parents had moved abroad. She spent the first hour of the call asking me about my trip and telling me everything about everyone but herself. Exhausted from trying to break through the same brick wall I’d already scaled on more than one occasion; I was ready to hang up and call it a night when she surprised me by talking about her older sister, Anna. Another piece of the puzzle that makes up Rose Cartwright. I listened as she confided about feeling inferior to her sister, who was moving back home to Seattle after years of being on campaign trails for presidential candidates.
We spent hours on the phone that night, trading stories of our lives, and as always, Rose picked up on the most minute of details, commenting on what I least expected and showing me that she still cared.
I spent the following day telling my dad about Rose as we toured the Roman Forum. My dad and I have always been close, but trying to explain Rose to him was surprisingly difficult. I was exhausted from trying to read between the lines or pick up on vague hints. Every time I managed to knock through a wall, four new ones seemingly appear. I needed a sounding board, someone to simplify the situation and make sense of it all because I’d never been so unsure of anyone’s intentions in my life. And while Dad didn’t magically have the answer to the mystery that was Rose, he did point out that I was getting distracted from the goals I’d set more than six years ago.
