I let out a sob and it shakes me, racking my chest.
I don’t want my parents to hear me and come to my room, so I shove my fist against my mouth, trying to muffle myself. I burrow underneath my covers, knees to my stomach like a ball. The candy is lost to my sheets somewhere.
I can hear my dad making monster noises through the floor, and Poppy and Sequoia screeching and giggling. That makes me cry more.
Apparently, I’m not stealthy enough, because my mom taps on the door a minute later.
“Juniper, can I come in?” she asks.
“Whatever.”
She opens my door. “I’m choosing to translate ‘whatever’ to mean yes.” She shuffles over to my bed, and I pull the quilt up to let her in.
“What’s going on?”
“Everything.”
“Did something happen with Nico?”
“No. He’s fine.”
She shifts positions, and a Milky Way bar rustles underneath her. She pulls it free and holds it up to me, raising her eyebrows, but she doesn’t say anything as she sets it on the nightstand. “He does seem like a kind boy.”
“He is.” I sniff and shove the edge of my quilt to the corners of my eyes to soak up the tears.
“So what’s got you so upset?”
“Sequoia rang the doorbell at the St. Pierres’ house tonight.”
My mom freezes. “Oh no.”
I clutch a handful of quilt in my hands.
“You and Dad keep saying nobody’s to blame, but I don’t think that’s true. Our family isn’t innocent in all of this,” I sputter. “The St. Pierres lost everything, because I wasn’t vaccinated. And from where I’m standing, that was a terrible choice.”
“Oh, Junebug.” She looks at me resolutely. “I know you think you know everything, but you don’t. Your dad and I did not come to our decision lightly. We read articles and did our research. And there was real-world experience. The little boy who lived down the street from us when I was pregnant with you, for one. He started showing signs of autism right after his MMR shot.”
“Mom, the link between the MMR vaccine and autism has been debunked.”
“Nevertheless…”
“No. There’s no nevertheless. It’s not true. There’s no link. Besides that, do you even realize how offensive your argument is? You make it sound like it’s worse to have an autistic kid than a dead kid. That’s so messed up.”
“Every decision I make, I make for you,” she murmurs.
I want to talk to her calmly. Rationally. But I can’t help sobbing into the quilt. “I don’t understand how you can see me upset like this and still tell me I can’t get the vaccinations I want.” She reaches for my hand, but I pull away. “So much of what you and Dad do, what you’ve taught us, is about making the world a better place for everyone. Vaccinations do that, too.” I look her right in the eye. “I don’t want this to happen again, Mom. Not to me. Not to anybody.”
She angles her face to the ceiling and closes her eyes. Like it hurts too much to have them open.
Like it hurts too much to see the truth.
TWENTY-FIVE
The football stadium smells like wet grass and popcorn. I hold tight to Nico’s hand as we push through the excited crowd, trying to find a seat. The bright fluorescent floodlights buzz above us, and my eardrums vibrate with the echo of cheers and the chatter of students in the stands. It’s so packed, so busy, that part of me wants to curl up and retreat. But Nico’s hand is soft and warm, pushing me forward.
“My friends and I usually sit somewhere around here,” he says, pointing out two empty seats at the end of a cement bench in the middle of the student section.
I’d expected we’d sit off to the side somewhere. Inconspicuous and away from people who might watch online videos from the local pumpkin patch on an endless loop. Because they still haunt me. The yells. The taunts. The spittle. The threats.
Murderers.
“What if someone recognizes me?” I say.
“Nah. Most of the people I know aren’t paying attention to stuff like that.”
He’s so sure, so confident, that I can’t help but trust him. I square my shoulders. Commit. “Lead the way.”
We walk up alternating steps of red and yellow, painted in school colors, to take our seats. Various people say hi to Nico along the way. The constant greetings make me feel like all eyes are on us, but when I really look at everyone, we’re merely a blip and they’ve gone back to focusing on the band marching through the middle of the field, pounding drums and blaring horns, while color guard girls wearing red and yellow sweaters and silver skirts that catch the light twirl flags and batons. I sit down, pull the red knit hat Poppy made me last Christmas lower over my ears, and tuck my hair into the back of my sweatshirt.
A guy in front of us turns around. Says, “What up?” to Nico.
Nico greets him with a lift of his chin and a “hey.”
A girl from a few rows behind us calls out Nico’s name. He turns around and waves.
“Come sit up here,” she shouts.
“We’re good,” he calls back, then turns to me and rubs his hands together in anticipation of the big game.
“Are you the mayor or something? You know everybody.”
“Nah. Just been in this small town since kindergarten.” He bumps my shoulder and places his hand on my knee. When his fingertips sink into the skin between the rips in my jeans, it makes my heart skitter. “All good?” he asks.
I nod and watch the field. If I look him in the eye, I’ll give away everything. Like how much I like him.
I focus on the sights and sounds instead. I break into a smile, my cheeks somehow warming despite the cold air.
I can’t believe I’m really here.
I’m finally in this.
I know enough about football from what Bumpa taught me watching games on TV at his house on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I’ve never been to a game in person, where I can actually feel the vibrations of the ground under my feet. Hear the metallic pom-pom tassels swish through the air. See the vibrant green of the grass.
The hickory scent of chimney smoke wafts through the stadium, and I wonder if it’s coming from my house, where this fall’s football games have only been an echo through my kitchen as my family ate dinner together. Garbled. Distant. Not mine.
There’s a screech of feedback through the stadium speakers, and people put their hands to their ears to protect them from the shrill sound. A booming voice announces the team. “And now, it’s my pleasure to present to you, your Playa Bonita Condors in their first playoff appearance since 2016!”
People in the stadium chant, “Caw, caw!” and I can’t help but laugh.
“I still can’t get over the fact that your mascot is a practically extinct California vulture.”
Nico laughs. “Gotta represent.”
A cannon fires and I startle in my seat as the team comes crashing through a hand-painted banner held up by cheerleaders. I hear the rip of the paper. Fans in the bleachers stand up, chanting and clapping. Nico stands too, pumping his fist in the air. I look up at him, debating whether to join.
“School spirit!” he says, urging me to join him. “Come on! You wanted the full experience, right?”
I give in, getting on my feet and cheering with him, unable to deny the rush of adrenaline it gives me.
The first quarter passes in a whir. First down. Third down. A field goal. A touchdown. Through it all, the cheerleaders flip in the air and the band plays “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes. The drumbeat pounds a trancelike rhythm that reverberates in my belly and my fingertips. The student section locks their arms across each other’s shoulders and bounces side to side in unison. One row goes to the right while the other goes to the left. I wonder what we look like to the fans of the opposing team sitting in the shabby wooden bleachers across the field from us. Intimidating? Doubtful.
Nico locks his hand over my shoulder and pulls me with him as our row boun
ces and sways to the music. The drum section takes over, and my skin prickles with goose bumps as the crowd chants along with the beat, “Oh, whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh.”
I take my free hand and swipe at my face and swear I feel tears. Of happiness. Because I’ve always wanted this. To be a part of something. To belong.
At halftime, Playa is up by a touchdown and the team runs, all muddied and sweaty, to the locker room as everyone in the bleachers stands up at the same time, making a collective rumbling sound.
“Want a Coke or something?” Nico says, looking toward the snack stand in the distance.
I brush off the back of my jeans. “Sure.”
Soda. Another thing that’s not okay for Team Jade to consume, but I go with him anyway. I won’t tell him my dad calls soda “sugar water.”
Nico holds my hand as we weave through the crowd, bumping and jostling against the throng of bodies all heading to get food at the same time. Someone stops Nico to say hi every five seconds. When he turns to talk to a guy with dreadlocks, a tall girl in a short skirt clips my shoulder.
“Oops,” I say. A knee-jerk reaction.
“Try sorry,” she hisses.
“Sorry.”
She laughs. “I’m just messing with you.” She glances at my hand entwined with Nico’s. “You’re here with this guy,” she says, motioning to Nico. “You can’t suck too bad.”
“Oh.”
“Have fun,” she says, and walks away.
“Who is that?” I ask Nico before she completely disappears.
“Who’s who?” He looks all around.
“Do you know that girl?”
“There are a lot of girls here. You have to be more specific.”
“That tall girl with the plaid skirt who was just talking to me.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t see her. But I’m sure we’ve hung out at some point.”
“Is hanging out code for something?” I want to shove the words back into my mouth. “Forget it.” I flutter my free hand between us. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Nico crinkles his eyes to study me, like he’s taking in every inch of my face to understand me better. And then he smiles, leaning his head closer to mine so that our foreheads almost touch. “You do realize I’m here with you, right?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Okay, good.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Because I’m hoping this isn’t just a one-time thing. And I also hope it’s more than hanging out.”
Every nerve ending in my body fizzes. “Yeah. Same.”
“Cool. Let’s go get some food.”
We pinball our way through the thick crowd as we make our way to the snack stand. As we stand shoulder to shoulder in line, I jump when someone bumps into me again. Jared from film club.
“Juniper! You’re here!” he says, with genuine excitement to see me. “Did Nico tell you about our next meeting? We missed you at my sci-fi double feature.”
Nico buries his face in my hair like he’s telling me a secret. “Longest night ever.” I feel his smile against my ear. His lips. His breath. My insides fizz again. He’s close, but I want him closer.
“Sorry to have missed it,” I say.
“You should come to the next meeting,” Jared says, twisting to fist-bump a guy walking past him with AirPods shoved into his ears. “We’re screening classics from the eighties.”
“You’ll love it,” Nico says, pulling back from me. I reach for his hand to keep him near. “We’re gonna watch high school movies.” He playfully nudges his elbow into my rib. “Lots of cafeterias. Your favorite.”
I elbow him back. “Are you making fun of me?”
Nico grins. “Not even. Come. I want you to.”
“Okay. I’ll ask my parents.”
“Sweet,” Jared says.
We move forward an inch at a time, and when we finally get to the front of the line, I can’t bring myself to actually order a Coke. I remember the pizza and the way it made my stomach sick. Maybe some of my parents’ rules aren’t the worst. I order hot apple cider instead and pull a dollar bill out from the back pocket of my jeans. But Nico pushes my hand away.
“I got it. Don’t worry.”
“Oh.” I put my money back into my pocket. “Thank you.”
We make our way back to our seats and sit down in our cement row of bleachers right as the band finishes up their halftime show. I sip my cider and watch band members take their places in the section of bleachers reserved especially for them. The team runs back onto the field and before I know it, the game starts up and that energy returns along with the cheers and the swaying and the pom-poms and the crackly commentary over the loudspeaker.
With two minutes left in the fourth quarter, the game is tied. But Playa has the ball. Everyone in the bleachers is on their feet. I try not to bite my nails, but I’m not sure where else to focus my nervous energy. My stomach flips, and I wonder how I can care so much so quickly. But I really want Playa to win. Maybe it’s because I just discovered this magic and I’m not ready to walk away from it yet. If they lose tonight, they’re out of the playoffs and the season is over. I want another game. Another night like this.
With Nico.
With everyone.
At under a minute left to play, the stadium hauls in a collective breath when Playa takes a chance on a critical fourth down. I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. Please get it. Please, I chant in my head. Without thinking, I grab Nico’s hand and bury my face against his shoulder.
“I can’t watch.”
“We have to watch.” He nudges my cheek with his shoulder so I’ll look. “Our team needs us. This is a classic movie moment right here. You can’t miss it.”
I open my eyes just as Playa players push forward, all together, and we manage to get the inches needed for a first down. The stadium erupts in cheers. But on the next play, Playa almost loses the ball. Everyone groans. And finally, with four seconds to go, Playa has gotten within field goal range. The kicker runs out to the field, surrounded by a wave of cheers and shaking pom-poms.
We all watch nervously as the ball is snapped.
The kick is good.
Playa wins.
I jump up and down. All the students scream in celebratory glee. Nico hugs me and I want to sink into him and stay there forever. And then, in the heat of the moment, in the excitement, he does it. He kisses me. A quick swipe of his lips on mine. Everything inside me flutters. I smile against his mouth.
When we pull away, I look up at him. He’s staring back at me. His big brown eyes are happy. Dancing. I know mine are, too. Because I’m pretty sure this is the best night of my entire life.
TWENTY-SIX
After the game, my cheeks are cold from the wind as Nico and I roll to a stop in front of a craftsman bungalow a few blocks from the school. I only know the house is called a craftsman bungalow because it’s the same as the house we live in. They’re popular in Playa Bonita. Nico’s on his bike. I’m on my skateboard. Both of us with helmets intact. We unsnap them in unison.
“Dorks times two,” I say.
He uncoils his bike lock, loops it through his back tire, wraps it around a skinny tree trunk, and clicks it closed. “If dork were a sound, it’d be a ten-speed bike lock clicking shut around a tree in front of a high school party.”
“Well, you don’t want anything to get stolen.”
“Yep. Gotta keep things safe,” he says, patting his bike seat.
I can’t help but laugh.
The party is bigger than I’d expected. Crowded with people like something out of one of the CW shows I watched at Mimi and Bumpa’s house over the summer. When I see the swell of bodies packed inside through the big front window, I feel claustrophobic already. And then there is laughter. Screeches. The heavy thump of music seeping into the street.
I pull my skateboard closer to my hip like a shield.
Nico eases my skateboard free and shoves it underneath the braided metal of his bike-lock tether. It’ll do
nothing to protect my board, but it looks like it’s secure in theory. “The party’s gonna be fine. I’m right here with you. It’s basically the football game with beer and music.”
“And drunk people I don’t know.”
“The beauty of drunk people is precisely the fact that they’re drunk. They have no idea what’s going on.”
I nod my head, trying to exude confidence. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The front door is unlocked, and Nico walks right in like he lives here. We’re instantly assaulted by a too-sweet strawberry-scented vape cloud. I cough. The guy who blew it bobs his head at me and inhales again. Thankfully, he blows the smelly cloud over his shoulder into someone else’s face this time. We land in the living room, where the coffee table is filled end to end with empty red plastic cups and a half-drained bottle of clear liquid that I’m pretty sure isn’t water. There are two couples making out on the couch. Two guys on one end and a girl and guy on the other end. Everyone’s hands wander to places that make me feel like a perv for watching, so I turn away.
I focus on the video game playing on the TV instead. It’s one of those first-person shooter games where you only see the back of someone pushing through an empty warehouse with a gun. It’s the kind of game Sequoia will probably want to play someday and my mom will have to curl up into the fetal position in the corner of her bedroom, crying and asking where she went wrong. I can’t even tell who’s playing, since there are too many people here and the couch is taken.
“Another room?” Nico says.
“Good idea.”
We push through the throng of people. A drunk guy goes off-kilter, banging into my shoulder. I grab for Nico’s hand and our fingers lock. He squeezes. And I’m suddenly back in that classroom with the movie playing and the pizza steaming and Nico all excited about Stephen King. Here and now, he turns around and smiles at me. I smile back.
In the kitchen, there’s a line for the keg, and people in it that shouldn’t be because they’re already too drunk. But who am I to say?
We lean against the counter, where empty chip bags are scattered across the black-and-brown-speckled granite. I can only imagine how disgusted my dad would be. “Heart disease in a bag,” he’d say.
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