by Lynn Painter
Balls bounced, students climbed the steps of the bleachers looking for their friends, minutes ticked down on the giant scoreboard, and cheerleaders danced in time with the band. I looked at Laney and watched for mistakes, but of course there were none to be seen. She did every choreographed move like she’d created it, her smile never wavering as she kicked, spun, and cheered in perfect unison with the other girls.
Disappointing.
I glanced at Michael, but thankfully he was talking to the guy next to him.
Wes nudged me with his shoulder. “Having fun?” He kind of yelled it into my ear. “At all?”
I laughed into his ear. “The band is on their third performance of ‘Uptown Funk,’ so I really feel like it’s gearing up to be a special evening.”
That made him smile. He leaned in closer, but his face remained fixed on the basketball court. “All right, Buxbaum—let’s make this interesting. If that guy right there,” he said, pointing to number 51 on our team, “outscores number twenty-three on the other team, you win fifty bucks.”
“What? Why?”
“No questions. Do you want a fitty or not?”
“Er, of course.” I was fifty dollars short on THE dress, after all. “But what if he doesn’t?”
“Then you wash my car.”
I pictured his car. “Your car seemed pretty clean earlier. What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He gave a tiny shrug, crossed his long arms, and said, “I mean, I may or may not be off-roading in Springfield tomorrow, but I wouldn’t call that a catch.”
“You’re such a cheater.” I looked at his teasing face as the band started playing “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” and I said, “But you’re on. What’s fifty-one’s name?”
“Matt Kirk.”
I watched number 51 hit a shot from behind the white line, and I turned to smile at Wes. But he wasn’t watching the court. He was looking at me—smirking, actually, in a way that made my stomach do a little stutter thing. I blinked, turning back to the court, hoping he didn’t notice whatever little blip that was. Then the buzzer went off, and thankfully jolted me back from whatever weird place that moment was all about.
* * *
“I had no idea y’all were so into basketball.” Michael looked a little impressed by my fanhood as we walked past the concession stand and down the hallway, following Wes, Noah, and Adam.
I owed Wes a huge thanks for the fifty-buck bet, because not only had it caused me to get into the basketball game to the point that I forgot about Laney and everything else in the world, but apparently it had raised my value in Michael’s eyes.
“Well, um, it’s the playoffs.” I knew Wes would smile if he heard me using his words. It was halftime, and we were about to sneak into Lincoln’s practice gym so we could shoot around until the game restarted. By “we” I meant everyone but me.
“I take it you’re pretty good friends with Matt?”
“Who?”
He looked confused, even though he was still smiling. “Number fifty-one? You were all over his game.”
Duh. “Oh, yeah. Matt. We’re… buds.”
Buds? Really? Say something cool for once in your life! Something that elevates you beyond Little Liz. I cleared my throat and added, “We dated for a while, but ultimately decided that we’re better as friends.”
Yeah, lying definitely makes it better.
I didn’t know what I was doing anymore with all the lying, to be honest. I’d always considered myself a pretty truthful person, but now I’d lied to Joss, to Helena, and to Michael. When was it going to stop?
Wes was the only one I hadn’t lied to lately, and that was because I wasn’t trying to please him or impress him. He knew the mess that I was, so there was really no point.
“Yeah, I get that.” Michael’s shoulder bumped mine in a casual yet—I was 99 percent sure—purposeful way. I was pretty sure my unnecessary lie had just scored me a point. He said, “I’ve had girlfriends like that.”
“Come on.” Noah was holding open a door and gesturing for us to hurry. “Get in before someone sees us.”
We followed him through the door and into the practice gym. Adam found a ball over by the corner drinking fountain while the other guys decided teams.
“You playing, Buxbaum?” Wes gave me a look like I should say yes, but I knew my skill level would do nothing to help me.
“I’ll watch, but thanks.” I pulled the earbuds out of my front pocket—I always had at least three pairs on my person at any given time—before clicking on my music. I dropped to the floor and sat crisscross applesauce as I popped the earbuds in and watched the boys play.
And just like that, they were all-in on their halftime game. Wes and Noah were one team; Michael and Adam were the other. Noah talked nonstop shit, and his verbal sparring with Michael and Adam made me laugh because it was brutal and cocky and hilarious.
Michael made some shots, but he was overshadowed by Wes, who seemed really, really good at basketball.
This was going to be fun.
I’d never created a soundtrack for a sporty event—and my running playlists didn’t count—but I always thought there was a specific magic to them. I mean, the soundtrack to Remember the Titans? Stone-cold ridiculous. The curator had managed a masterpiece that left the songs forever changed for every person who’d seen the film.
Who could hear “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” without picturing Blue singing in the locker room after that nightmarish practice at training camp? And James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” was completely reincarnated by that movie. I couldn’t remember what I’d imagined when listening to that song before I’d seen the movie, but for the rest of my life I was always going to picture the car accident that left Bertier paralyzed.
I watched Noah dribble down the court. He bounced the ball with the confidence of one who knew the ball wouldn’t be stolen from him. Inspired, I scrolled for something loud, because the game I was watching was all about noise. It was a cacophony of voices, grunts, sneaker squeaks, and bounces.
I cranked “Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys. It wasn’t original, but it was perfection. I kept raising the volume as Ad Rock set the perfect backdrop for this sweaty matchup. Noah smirked as he juked around Adam, and right after the first set of record scratches, he stepped back and let go of a shot that arced high into the air before swishing into the basket. Nothing but net.
So-so-so-so listen up ’cause you can’t say nothin’
Michael passed the ball to Adam, who was fast and sprinted down to the corner, but Wes was already there with his hands up. Adam bounced it over to Michael, who dribbled underneath the basket and just put it in, like it was easy.
Listen all y’all it’s a sabotage…
Adam passed the ball right at the song’s middle scream, and I was buzzing, alive in the way that I only felt when I got the matchup exactly right. If life was a movie, this song was meant for this moment.
Music made everything better.
When Noah popped a three-pointer to win the game, I totally sat up and yelled. Only, I was cheering my own little victory, not theirs.
Everyone instantly relaxed once the game was over, talking and casually taking shots at the basket. I scrolled to Joe Cocker’s “Feelin’ Alright” as I watched the sportsmanship in front of me. Noah was arguing—loudly—with Adam as they both laughed, and Wes was doing some terrible dance move beside them, also laughing.
There was something sweet in the way they moved from foes to friends, from athletic rivals to simple teenage boys, the minute that the metaphorical whistle blew the game over.
“Whatcha smilin’ at?”
I jumped and my hand flew up to my heart before yanking the buds from my ears.
I turned my head at an awkward angle to see Michael standing beside me and looking down at my face.
“You scared me!”
“Sorry.” He gave me a little smile, and my stomach flipped all the way upside down. His blond hair was sweaty on th
e outer fringes, but it was like the sweat worked as a gel and held all the spiky parts in place. His eyes were warm as he said, “You looked so happy, just sitting there with your earbuds in. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “I, um, I just love…”
Lord knows I didn’t love sports, so I waved my hands, gesturing around the gym, hoping that would suffice and save me from another fib.
“Wanna shoot around?” He was smiling down at me, and I noticed that he really did have great hair. He actually could be a hair hero if that were a real thing.
“I’m terribly uncoordinated,” I said, and I caught a glimpse of Wes in my peripheral vision. I made the mistake of turning my head in his direction, and he gave me a double thumbs-up with a cheesy smile and eyebrow waggle.
Oh, for the love.
Michael dribbled and said, “You can’t be that bad.”
I returned my attention to him and said, “I so can.”
“Come on.” He stopped dribbling and held out a hand to pull me up. “I’ll help your shot.”
I grabbed his hand, and warmth shot through my every molecule as he pulled me to my feet. I followed him as he dribbled toward the open hoop, and as soon as we got close, he let a shot fly and it went in. I got the rebound and he said, “Let’s see your shot.”
It hit me at that second that we could be about to have a movie moment. I gave him a smile and said, “Here goes nothing.”
Of its own accord, “Paradise” by Bazzi started in my head.
This shit feel like Friday nights
This shit make me feel alive—
I released, and watched my hard-core airball fail majorly. As in, the ball flew many, MANY feet short and to the side of the basket. When I started to laugh, Michael just smiled at me, and the look on his face was so charming, it made me want to write a poem.
Instead I said, “Are you biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You can see that?”
“I see all, young Michael.”
He gave me an adorably playful look and said, “It’s actually ‘Michael Young.’ ”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “That’s right.”
“Well.” He retrieved the ball and bounced it through his legs, giving me a half smile that made me a bit light-headed. “If you can see all, you can probably see that Wesley kind of has a thing for you.”
The song stopped with a record scratch.
“Pft—whaaat? No,” I stalled. Even though I knew this was the angle we were playing, I pictured Wes on the day when he’d dragged a rusted old truck bumper into The Spot just so I couldn’t park there. If Michael only knew the half of it.
“I’m telling you, Liz.” He passed me the ball, and I actually caught it. “The boy told me.”
Oof. Suddenly the lie wasn’t as easy to manage as I’d thought it would be. Wes had already talked to him? What was I supposed to say again? I bounced the ball, focusing on not letting it get out of control. “Oh. Um. I like Wes, but only as a friend.”
“You should reconsider—he’s a really good guy.”
I smiled at him, trying not to beam like a lovesick fool as he stood there looking like the poster boy for everything I’d ever wanted. “Wes is not a ‘really good guy,’ Michael—come on. He’s…” I stopped dribbling. “Wes is fun and unpredictable and the life of the party. He’s got good qualities, but he is not good.”
But as I said it, I didn’t quite feel it anymore. That was how I’d always thought of him, but it was becoming clear to me that either he’d changed or I’d been wrong all along.
Michael gave a small nod as if recognizing my point. “Still.”
I raised the ball to shoot, but Michael came behind me and moved my hands so I was holding the ball a different way. It felt like his fingertips burned their every groove into my skin, and I had a hard time remembering how to even use my appendages. His tanned hands were spread around my pale fingers and chipped turquoise polish, and in spite of that somehow-romantic image, I still managed to release the ball and actually send it through the hoop.
“Did you teach her that, Young?” I turned away from the basket, and there was Wes, walking up beside Michael. “Because she damn sure didn’t know how to do that before.”
I picked up the ball. “How would you know?”
“I know all, Buxbaum.”
I rolled my eyes and dribbled in the other direction.
“I may have given some pointers, but that shot was all Little Liz,” I heard Michael say. I cringed. “And by the way, about my hair.”
I stopped dribbling and glanced over my shoulder. Wes’s eyebrows were quirked like he was both confused and interested to hear what was about to follow. Michael touched the front of his hair and said, “I use Ieate styling pomade on the front, to get it to hold but not look rigid, and then I just put a little gel on the sides.”
“I see.” The corners of Wes’s mouth looked like they wanted to smile, but I could tell he wasn’t sure if Michael was seriously talking about his hair or being a smart-ass.
“Your hair would probably do the same thing, honestly, if you grew it out and got a good cut.”
I almost laughed when I saw the change on Wes’s face as he realized that Michael was dead serious. “You really think so?” Wes said.
“For sure.” Michael gave Wes a pat on the shoulder, flashed an adorable grin, and said, “You can be your own hair hero.”
Uh-oh.
“Um, Michael?” I had to step in and shut it down.
“Yeah?”
Shoot—I had to say something. “Erm—have you given any more thought to prom? If you’re going to go with someone? Maybe a friend or whatever.” Oh, for the love of Nora Ephron, that seemed way too forward. I cleared my throat and added, “What about you, Wes—are you going? It just seems like a lot of people are skipping this year. I heard.”
Michael’s eyes were on me, like he’d considered me for the position, and I felt electric. He said, “I’m still—”
At that same second, I heard Noah yell, “Heads up!”
Which was a half second before a hurtling basketball slammed into my face and knocked me flat on my ass.
* * *
“I am so sorry.”
I tried to look at Noah but couldn’t see him through the wadded shirt over my nose and because of the way my head was tilted all the way back. The only things I could see were shirt and ceiling. “Stop apologizing. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. I mean, it was in that I wasn’t mad at Noah. Apparently he’d been goofing around and had tried to violently chest-pass the ball to Adam, who hadn’t known and had moved out of the way at the most inopportune time.
Things had been going so well with Michael just before that ball had pounded into my nose. One minute we’d been having a potential movie moment, and the next there was blood gushing from my face.
And it couldn’t have just been a tiny bloody nose. Nope. Not for me, not in front of Michael Young. The moment the ball hit, it was like a faucet had been turned on. Wes pulled off his shirt, shoved it against my nose, and helped me sit up while Michael squatted beside me, asking if I was okay, with concerned eyes.
My new white shirt was covered in blood, and my jeans were pretty splattered too. I was glad I didn’t have a mirror; I was sure I’d die of embarrassment if I could see myself. No one in the world had ever looked attractive with blood pouring from an orifice.
No one.
And as I sat there bleeding, I couldn’t help but wonder if the universe was sending me a message. I mean, I was more optimistic than most and I wholeheartedly believed in destiny, but I’d be lying if I said red flags weren’t poised to raise.
Because both the vomit and the blood had happened right when I’d been having moments with Michael. Both times, it’d felt like we were connecting, and then BOOM. Bodily fluids.
“Still okay, Buxbaum?”
I couldn’t see Wes’s face, but his deep voice made me relax. Probably because I knew him better than the rest of them. He’d dropped to the ground beside me after shoving his shirt against my face, and the smell of him, combined with his unexpected nurturing side, kept me calm.
“Noah, you broke the girl’s face.”
“If you would’ve actually caught the pass, you bum, poor Liz wouldn’t be on the transplant list.”
I was starting to sightlessly recognize their voices because they never stopped jawing.
Adam said, “How can I catch something I didn’t know was coming?”
“How can you not?” Noah said it around a snort. “It’s called instinct.”
“Is there such a thing as a nose transplant?” That sounded like Adam again. “Just curious.”
“Listen to you with the good questions.” Michael sounded like he was laughing and bouncing the basketball. “Because that’s certainly relevant to this situation.”
Not going to lie, it was kind of alarming how Michael was so loose and relaxed while I was practically bleeding out.
Adam said, “I can’t help it if I’m a curious boy.”
“You’re such a nerd.” Noah sounded like he was kind of laughing too.
“I still need an answer,” Adam said.
“I think yes.” My voice sounded weird and muffled behind the shirt. “There was a lady who got her whole face ripped off by a monkey, and she had a face transplant.”
“For real?” Adam sounded fascinated. “Her whole face?”
“I’m pretty sure.” The small talk was a nice distraction from my anxiety over potential nasal damage. I mean, didn’t people who got their noses broken end up with massive bumps on them? Was my nose broken?
I tried squinching it up, and it freaking killed. Shit.
Wes’s face popped into my line of sight, something to look at besides the gym ceiling. “You okay?”
