by Jody French
"Whatever," Heather dismisses. She grabs me by the arm and cuddles into my sore ribs like a purring kitten. "Can you pleeease turn the music down a little bit?" she asks, rubbing her temples, I believe, in an attempt to fake a headache.
"That's twice already this morning," I mumble.
"What, babe?" Heather asks, as she surveys her perfect manicure. Each fingernail is embossed with a tiny orange and black tiger paw. I wonder how girls think of these things.
"Oh, nothin.’ “Your hair looks nice," I compliment.
Heather smiles and kisses me on the cheek. Her good mood returns with my flattering words. "You’re a living doll, Forrest," she beams as she pulls my rearview mirror down to her eye level. She strokes her perfectly straightened, highlighted hair and reapplies her powder.
I reach up to wipe her finger smudges off my mirror. Sometimes I think Heather bases her good days and bad days on how many compliments she gets. This was compliment number two, if you count the honk she got from the farmer in the one ton truck earlier, and it wasn’t even 8:30 a.m. yet—her day is probably shaping up nicely already.
I make a right onto Broadway. It’s the second day of October and most of the small, worn houses that line the street are already decorated in the Halloween spirit. Hay bales, pumpkins and strung up spider webs make for creepy, quaint curb appeal.
My brakes squeal slightly as I come to a stop in front of Sticky Buns Doughnut Shop. Heather has to have her morning cappuccino. As I enter the small coffee and sugar scented shop, I hear two elderly women whispering rather loudly. I wonder why they’re bothering to whisper at all, since everyone within a twenty foot radius can hear them—the donut shop is probably only a hundred square feet altogether.
The two women have strategically positioned themselves at a table directly by the door so that no one can escape their fastidious inspection. A black velvet painting of a tabby cat with huge, green, exaggerated eyes hangs above them.
They continue to cluck away and their conversation unfortunately drifts along with me as I make my way to the orange and gold chipped linoleum counter.
"Oh, Thelma, I knooow! Ruth Walton has not been widowed for more than eight months and she is already holding hands with John Franklin in church at Sunday service!" one of the ladies clucks. Her wrinkled, thin, painted-on ruby lips are pursed together as though she has just sucked on a sour lemon slice.
"It's just scandalous!” The other blue-haired patron of the pastry shop agrees. She turns up her nose and shakes her head under hair that is piled high in a perfectly pinned, bluish silver bun.
Well, I happen to know Ruth Walton, and wish the two women would mind their own business. Mrs. Walton lost her husband to a long bout with cancer almost a year ago. She found a companion in John Franklin, who’s an elder in my church. He’d also been widowed years earlier. They’re both very sweet, kind-hearted souls who deserve continued happiness.
I purchase a sugar-free vanilla cappuccino and two maple bars and try to make a clean getaway from the two gossiping hens. As I pull on the door to exit the shop, the dangling brass cowbell that is wired to the top of the door clanks loudly above me. It draws attention to my departure and I know instinctively, as the two women eye me carefully up and down, that I’ll be their next topic of conversation.
My long, shaggy, Peter Frampton-ish hair is certainly not the norm for our small, conservative town. I don’t know why I look back. Maybe I’m just hoping that I really do fit in, that it’s just my imagination and the two ladies are back to sipping their coffee and nibbling at their apple fritters, but as I glance back over my shoulder, I notice one of the women pointing at my wallet chain. I’m sure the two busy-bodies think I whip it around in gang fights, but the heavy metal chain really has a valid use—it keeps my wallet from being stolen in a crowd by anchoring it securely in my back pocket—great for concerts.
The tips of my ears begin to warm and tingle, and are doing the proverbial burning from gossip, as I jump back into my truck. I hand Heather the steaming, frothy drink and fire up the engine. She’s changed the dial to a country station while I was inside. The radio is playing a song by Miranda Lambert called, “Famous in a Small Town." It’s a clever country tune that tells the story of gossip in a little town and how it can make some of its town folk "famous" in a not-so-good way.
I think to myself, as Heather and I drive down the jack-o-lantern ridden main street of our one-horse town, Mrs. Ruth Walton and I are definitely on our way to becoming celebrities this morning.
The halls of Coweta High School are buzzing with the festive mood that game day always brings. Tiger spirit is thick in the air. Orange and black butcher paper banners with big white shoe polish letters are hung, declaring, “The Tigers are gonna leash the Bulldogs!”
I find it kind of odd that me and my fellow football players are treated like heroes in both our school and community. We’re warriors of our small town, with many fans pinning their hopes and dreams on the promise of a winning season. Depending on the prestige of our position on the football team, we might score anything from on-the-house burgers and fries from the local Snack Shack to free tokens for car washes at the Country Suds Car Wash. It’s awesome, though—I'm always lucky enough to end up with a full stomach and a clean, shiny truck.
As I make my way down the rowdy hallway, I give three high fives and receive two good luck nods from my fellow Coweta Tigers teammates. I come to a stop when I reach my locker and take a long breath. Unfortunately, I have a bottom locker this year and have to do squats every time I need to open it. Squats are okay in football, but not cool in a busy hallway.
As I dig through the disorganized mess inside, Kyle sneaks up on me from behind, giving me a hard shove on the rear that knocks me off balance. I fall face-first into a mass of notebooks and loose-leaf papers.
"Duuuude!" I yell. My voice echoes as I pry my head from the rectangular metal box. With wide eyes, I turn to see my evil buddy holding his stomach. He’s having a great laugh at my expense.
"Who’d ya think gave you the love tap…old Mrs. Smith maybe?" Kyle asks, cackling. Mrs. Smith teaches history. She’s fifty-two years old and is unfortunately taken—married for the past thirty-four years, to be exact.
I don’t skip a beat. "No! I thought it was your mama, Kyle!" I retort sarcastically.
"Ohhhh, that’s sooo wrong!” Kyle moans with a tone of defeat. He grabs his chest as though he’s been physically wounded. The score is now one to zip. Victory is mine for the battle of the wits this morning.
"Hey, ya’ ready for the game tonight?" Kyle asks as he helps me retrieve the notebooks and crumbled papers that had shot out of my crammed locker like birthday confetti.
"Yeah, but Coach has been killin’ us. I’m still gimpin’ from practice yesterday," I complain as I stretch and rub the back of my stiff neck.
"Man, I know…but it’ll all be worth it when we thump the Bulldogs tonight," Kyle agrees. His sympathy is short-lived, however, and he punches me squarely on my aching shoulder. “Try not to be such a girl! See ya at lunch, dude!” my best friend adds with an ornery grin as he hands me a handful of papers imprinted with dusty tennis shoe prints.
Kyle and I are off to class. We join the herd as we dive into the swiftly moving river of students, accompanied by the sound of clanging orange-lacquered lockers.
Besides playing football, my other passion is jamming in a rad, teen rock band called Cellar Door Is Gone. We play classic rock, along with our original stuff, loud and tight. My first hour at school is with my bandmates. I get such a kick out of them. They are total dudes.
I dodge a whole fleet of white paper airplanes as I walk through the door of Mrs. Smith’s classroom. I’m glad I scored her as a teacher this year. She smells like tea roses and reminds me of my Nana. Everyone likes her because she doesn’t give homework and never refuses a bathroom pass.
I’m enveloped by the stuffy, floral-scented air as I greet the boys in my band with our secret handshake and fist bump. I
spot Jake, our cool-as-a-breeze lead guitarist, at Mrs. Smith's desk, working on a hall pass, even though the tardy bell hasn’t even rung yet.
"Hey Forrest, did ya get the show scheduled for Saturday in Tulsa?" asks our drummer, Cody. Cody is quiet and unassuming. He’s got a shy smile that throws people off. His sandpaper sense of humor is dry—his random one-liners always crack me up.
“Yep, I sure did. We go on at nine o’clock…we can take the gear in my truck. My aunt’s driving, too, so if any of you wants a girlfriend to go, she's welcome to ride with her,” I offer.
"What girlfriends?" Randy, our band’s bass player whines. “Duuude, you’re the only one with a girlfriend right now,” he continues, as he carefully folds his past due English homework into the shape of a fighter jet.
“What about the hot chick you said you’ve been talkin’ to for the past two weeks?” I inquire with a wink in Cody’s direction.
“On-line girlfriends don’t count, man,” Cody teases.
“Hey, I’m gonna meet her someday…I can’t help it if she lives in Canada!” Randy responds defensively.
“Ummm…any ideas on how you’re magically gonna become six feet two with abs of steel…not too smart sending ‘cyber-girl’ a picture of the captain of the basketball team, Einstein,” Cody continues.
“Hey! I’m startin’ a workout routine.” Randy defends earnestly as he launches his stealthy folded airplane at Cody, nailing him right in the nose. He immediately regrets the decision. “Oh, shoot, give that back, dude. I have to turn that in next hour,” Randy pleads in vain.
As Randy tries to retrieve his homework from Cody, who’s holding the half-finished book report/Boeing 747 above his head out of his reach, I begin to think how awesome it would be to have a girlfriend who would actually come hear me play. I know Heather won’t be coming to my show. She attended one of our concerts a week after she and I started dating, but complained that it just wasn't her cup of tea—the music was too loud. I told her I understood, but deep down I wish she liked the same music as me.
"Dang, I'm hungry," Randy grumbles, rubbing his chubby stomach. “I'm gonna get a bathroom pass and hit the vending machines by the teacher’s lounge. You losers want anything?" he asks as he checks his Hot Topic hoodie pocket for loose change. He finds fifty cents in dimes and nickels, and begins scraping lint-covered, green spearmint gum off of one of the coins.
"You just sat down, dude!" I laugh. “It’s only eight thirty in the morning.”
"I know man, but all I had for breakfast was an Egg McMuffin and sausage biscuit from Mickey D’s—I'm ready for dessert," Randy reasons with a straight-as-an-arrow face. I swear, I can almost see two Snickers bars shining in Randy’s eyes like cherries in a slot machine.
I slap Randy on the shoulder, slide down in my seat and begin to work on my history worksheet. I’ll more than likely have to share my answers with my bandmates, mostly because I have a solid “A” in the subject. Jake, Randy and Cody are currently pulling C-minuses, thanks to my generous homework sharing. They’re on their own for the history tests, although most of the time they just write the answers on their hands or Scotch tape them to the bottom of their high-tops and Van’s.
The tardy bell rings and the classroom gets quiet. I look one row over at my good friend Zane who looks especially zoned out this morning. I notice the dark, haunting circles under his eyes and I send him a text message on the down low.
We got the gig in Tulsa!!! you can ride with me if you want to go-is everything ok at home?
Zane sneaks his cell phone out of his jeans pocket and scans the text. He nods to me with his chin, declaring that this is a good thing as I survey his eyes as best I can behind the veil of long, fine black hair that usually hides his expressions.
The bell rings for second hour. As the classroom begins to empty, I lean into Zane. "See ya at lunch man.” I can sense Zane’s melancholy mood as he gives me a thumbs up and tries to muster a semi-smile. His step-dad must have started in on him already this morning, I think to myself.
I exit the classroom, and shake my head as I hear Randy’s voice in the distance asking what’s on the lunch menu today.
The last hour of my dragging school day finally arrives. Heather and I walk arm-in-arm to the gymnasium for the pep assembly. PDA is discouraged at school, so I give her a quick hug as the Tiger marching band begins to file by in Noah’s Ark fashion, two by two. Heather stands in front of the trophy case, admiring herself and adjusting her skirt in the reflective glass. Her gaze is interrupted when a clumsy trumpet player, deep in conversation about the movie Tron, accidentally bumps into her.
"Hey…watch where you're going, nerd!” she yelps loudly.
"Wow, Heather—a bit harsh," I scold under my breath.
"Forrest, he could’ve snagged my cheerleading uniform. He needs to get his glasses checked," she replies while brushing imaginary cooties off her polyester cheer top.
"Well, first off, he wasn’t wearing glasses,” I point out. I have no other words. I just turn and walk away, feeling a sense of discomfort and guilt by association.
If she weren’t so gorgeous…surely she’s just having a bad day, my thoughts excuse her behavior for now.
As I trot across the gym to take my place with my buddies on the football team, I look down at the free-shot line to see two drum sticks rolling toward my worn, black Converse tennis shoes.
"I'm sorry!" a petite and very cute drummer girl squeaks. She tries in vain to retrieve the sticks in the crowd, but her bulky, oversized, fuzzy band hat keeps getting in the way.
"Here ya go," I say proudly, as I pick up the sticks and spin one in my left hand. The drummer girl thanks me, giving me one of the sweetest smiles I swear I’ve ever seen.
"You'd better hurry. I really need to get my spirit up for the big game tonight," I tease, pointing to her fellow bandmates who have already assembled and are warming up with random squeaks and squawks on their instruments.
We both hesitate for a second, staring into each other’s almost matching blue eyes.
What a dad gum cutie!
"Thanks again," she says nervously, wringing her fingers together. She grabs the sticks and disappears quickly into the stands.
“Wow…she’s adorable,” I state out loud to myself, the airy words from my mouth getting lost in the noise of the packed gym.
The pep assembly is rowdy and fun. Heather is the prettiest girl on the cheerleading squad, and is droppin’ it like it’s hot to a censored Snoop Dog jam. She’s definitely the center of attention as she swings her shiny pony tail, cascading from an oversized orange bow, back and forth like a well- kept show horse at the Muskogee County Fair. She and D.J., the football team's quarterback, lead the assembly. As the students, jammed against each other in the bleachers, cheer with them, it’s obvious that Heather and D.J. both relish the spotlight.
After the assembly, D.J. boldly tells Heather that she looks totally hot in her cheerleader uniform. That was her third compliment in the last seven hours. As I watch Heather giggle and flirt with D.J., I can't help but think that his forward comment is probably making her day.
It’s perfect fall weather. Not too hot and not too cold. The air feels crisp and cool. Dad would say it’s the kind of day where you could just smell football in the air. My dad can always smell football in the air. He even has a leather-scented air freshener in his truck, which I’m sure is to make it smell like a brand new football—not a new car.
Dad was a jock back in his day, too. He’s very proud of my athletic ability, and never hesitates to encourage me in anything sports-related. He coached my peewee baseball and football teams and literally never missed a game. I remember the first time Dad helped me put all my equipment on when I was six years old. It was like trying to go out to play in the snow after your mom bundles you up excessively. I was so excited, but could barely move my arms and legs, and looked like a bug with my huge helmet on my little noggin. It’s something you get used to eventually, once you r
ealize your pads and helmet are your lifesavers.
Like Dad, my favorite sport was football. By middle school, I quit baseball, as I’d discovered that the two extracurricular activities that made me happiest were football and music. Now I’m a starting linebacker for my high school team and, on occasion, get to step in for D.J. as quarterback. I love leading the team as quarterback, but I know for a fact that D.J. becomes resentful when I take over his position.
D.J. and I used to be good friends when we were in grade school, but he later considered all of life to be a competition. If you were beating him in any part of the game, he was more than likely not going to be your friend.
My buddies tell me that D.J. is also jealous of the fact that I’m going out with the most popular girl on the cheer squad. He has his eye on Heather, which creates the perfect recipe for tension soup.
It’s a game day, so football practice is light. Kyle and I make our way out onto the field in shorts and practice jerseys—no pads needed—there will be no full contact during practice today.
As I walk by D.J., he just can’t resist the chance to rib me like he usually does.
“Kyle, are you and your Iady friend ready for the game tonight?” D.J. snickers.
I turn to face him and D.J. retracts. "Oh, I'm sorry Forrest. Your hair is gettin' so long, I thought you were one of the water girls…niiiiiice!”
"That's really original, D.J.," I respond in a monotone. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a rise, but I’m getting tired of his cheap shots.
"Oh, come on, rock star…I'm just teasin' ya… where's your sense of humor?"
D.J. laughs as he jogs by. I’m not amused in the least, and I can tell by Kyle’s face, neither is he.
"Don't worry about him, Forrest. D.J.’s got issues. Probably wasn’t cuddled enough by his mommy when he was a baby," Kyle remarks dryly.
"Ah, good one!" I grin as we slap a high five in front of D.J. Now I can tell it’s D.J. who’s not amused.
