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  “The heels are new,” he smirked, as he started the truck.

  “I’m a junior, growing up.” I passed him an open package, rol ing my eyes.

  “Not too fast. Do I need to have a chat with Travis before your first date ever on Friday and tel him to keep his hands to himself?” He kept his eyes on the road.

  “You’d better not!” I said, feeling the heat in my face.

  “It’s OK, Gia. I already had the talk with him. Yesterday. Actual y.” He paused for dramatic effect before he laughed.

  “You’d better not,” I repeated.

  “We’l see, I guess.”

  When I got to school, he wasn’t at our lockers. I slid the note into his and went to class. I would see him closer to lunch, and that was OK.

  Chapter 7

  A Fumbling Bumbling Idiot

  Travis

  I waited as long as I could by my locker. She had already put the note in it, and I figured it would be a long shot to see her again, but I waited still. With minutes to spare, I finally took off toward my first period. I took my seat as the teacher asked for homework. I snatched it out and passed it forward. I took out the letter and read it. Jill eyed me suspiciously. I was thrilled that Gia shared so much with me. I understood that she was sad. I didn’t think she was depressed, and if she was giving me an out, I wasn’t going to take it. I was going to tell her that when I saw her. Everything about her was goodness. She was hurting, and I’d have to find a way to help her heal her broken heart.

  Gia was talking with Abby by our lockers when I came up and put my things in my locker. She radiated as I stepped beside her and took her hand.

  She smiled shyly at me as we went to lunch. We sat at our now usual table and were in a comfortable groove. I passed her the note I’d written to her under the table. We shared a smile that no one noticed. On the fold I’d written, “ To my favorite suitcase.” She smirked as she dropped it into her purse. I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. I breathed her coconut scent. I watched her tilt her head to the side. I memorized the sound of her voice. I looked at her long fingers and imagined her playing the piano. My eyes were drawn to the ring that said LOVE. I would get that story out of her, too, soon enough.

  We went to speech together, and we took our seats. El a was bouncing off the wal s about the pep ral y set for Friday. I groaned. I hated those things. They used to do them only for basketbal , but last year they began hauling everyone out to the footbal field to improve school spirit. Gia smirked at me quizzical y.

  “You’l see.” I rol ed my eyes.

  “Hey, if we get out of class I’m for it.” She giggled. Mr. Franklin came in with a large bouquet of wild flowers.

  “Good afternoon, class.” We straightened up and turned toward him. “The first speech I want you to prepare for is a three-minute informative speech. I would like it to be on a relevant topic. I want to see your notes and references by Friday. Homework for tomorrow, though, I wil take your topic. Then tomorrow during class we wil be going to the school library so that you can begin to gather research. So let’s get into this. What is an informative speech?” I began to zone out. I tried to take notes, but my mind wasn’t choosing a topic for an informative speech.

  I survived the class and as we made our way to her free period, we luckily weren’t interrupted by a blond head cheerleader. I made it through the rest of my day and into practice.

  We ran our dril s, talked about plays, practiced the plays, and I dropped the bal . A lot. Mason threw the bal to me. I tried to focus on it because if I couldn’t get hold of it during the game, we would lose. I’d be embarrassed in front of the whole school, and worse yet, I’d be embarrassed in front of Gia. I shook my head as the bal went right through my hands. Again. The coach shook his head, threw down his clipboard, and blew his whistle. We al ran over to where he stood. His face was red, and he pointed at several boys but mostly me.

  “This is NOT Little League. You guys are playing like toddlers out there. If you don’t get it together NICHOLS, you’re going to cost us this game.

  Everyone else is giving a hundred percent, but you, you’re a fumbling, bumbling idiot out there.” Chiz smirked and nudged Alex. Alex looked annoyed. “Dixon, you get to run an extra round of tosses with Nichols.” Mason groaned. “You need to take your head out of your ass and get it in the game Nichols, or you won’t be starting on Friday night.” He was now in my face screaming. I just nodded. “Hit the showers everyone.” He waved everyone off, but was stil in my face. “You. Run plays until YOU get it right!” He poked me in the chest. I held his eye contact, and after a few long seconds, he turned away and fol owed the rest of the team into the locker room. I ran back onto the field where Mason and Alex were already.

  Mason threw Alex the bal . He caught it perfectly. I was very envious of him. I fel into position. Alex threw the bal back to him. He had a good arm, too. He stayed where he was, but took a blocker position.

  “Seventy-seven, thirteen, sixty-nine,” Mason chuckled. That wasn’t even a play; what a tool! “Hut, hut, hut.” Mason leaned back. I ran. I kept looking back at him and watching for Alex, who was charging me. He and the bal were coming at me at the same speed. They would reach me both at the same time. Alex hit me with his shoulder in my stomach just as the bal was on the tip of my fingers. It began to rotate out of my reach, as Alex pushed me back. I fel on my back, and he jumped to his feet.

  “Sorry man, run it ‘til you get it, right?” Alex stretched out his hand to help me up. I took it and stood.

  “Yeah, next time why don’t you bring it a little?” I only half-joked. I was angry that I couldn’t quite get it. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

  “Oh, you want me to bring it next time?” Alex smirked.

  “Wil you girls stop flirting and let’s do this? I’m starving, and my mom is making lasagna tonight.” Mason’s hands were in the air.

  “You’re always starving,” I snapped, as I hurled the bal toward him.

  “One more time, dude,” he yel ed to me as he went back to his stance. “Ready. Set. Hut, hut, hut!” I had barely gotten back to my starting point as he was tucking back and throwing the bal . I ran and caught that bal right in my hands. Alex had stood off to the side, not even going for me.

  “Again,” I cal ed, as I jogged back to my position. And we did it, over and over. Final y, we al hit the showers and were on our way home.

  “Thanks for hanging out while I worked on my catch. I’ve been off this week,” I sighed, as I pul ed out of the parking lot.

  “No problem, man. I know you know the techniques. I’ve seen you catch, but I think you’re thinking about it too much. You have to let it come to you.

  Be there for when it gets there.” He shrugged as he looked out the window.

  “I know. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, I guess.” I glanced over at him.

  “Wel , Gia wouldn’t want to be a distraction, so you need to get it together, or she’l decide to break things off with you. We haven’t talked much about you, but she likes you. She likes you a lot.” He paused and looked at me, and added, “If you don’t treat her right, you’l have me to deal with.” I looked at him, nodding my head.

  “I understand.”

  We arrived at their house. I worried that I was over-staying my welcome. This was the third day that I ate dinner with them. Mom would be giving me a hard time soon I was sure. I didn’t care though; I was going to ride this out as long as I could.

  Gia was pul ing a meatloaf out of the oven as we came into the kitchen door. Alex took his bags upstairs and left me standing there watching her as she cooked.

  “Can I help?” I asked, going to the sink and washing my hands.

  “Yes, the rol s in the freezer need to go into the oven,” she said. I got the package down. She handed me a pan, and I placed three rol s on the pan.

  She put them in the oven and stirred the green beans as she checked the potatoes.

  “Who taught you how to
cook like this?” The meatloaf was making my stomach growl; it smel ed so good.

  “Who else? My mom, wel , and the Betty Crocker cookbook,” she smirked.

  “Why did your mom leave your dad to begin with if you don’t mind me asking?” I leaned against the counter watching her add spices. She looked up to the ceiling for a moment, thinking, and then she looked at me as she sighed.

  “My dad wasn’t very nice back then; he drank a lot, and used my mom as a punching bag. He grabbed Alex by the col ar once, and that was al it took for her to realize that she had to do something. We left the next day when he went to work. He’s been in rehab and is supposedly better now.

  He ignores us now; I haven’t seen him since Sunday.” She went back to stirring.

  “I’m sorry.” I reached and touched her arm.

  “I was six when she loaded us up and drove to Atlanta. I was scared that he would be mad and come after us, but he never did. In fact,” she turned to face me, “he never even contacted us. My mom contacted him for the divorce, and then when she remarried and Mitchel wanted to adopt us.

  That’s what makes al this so hard, being here in this town, in this house.” I reached up and caught a tear as it slipped from her eye. She looked away and went back to the stove. She asked for the butter and milk from the refrigerator. Then she mixed the potatoes. She cal ed to Alex, and I helped her set the table. We ate, discussing the upcoming game. His phone rang during dinner, and he disappeared upstairs again.

  “He and Kiarah are getting close.” She smiled.

  “Yeah, he real y likes her,” I added.

  “I hope he doesn’t break her heart. He was a bit of a player back home; I mean in Indy.” She laughed nervously.

  “I can see that. The cheerleaders seem to like him.” I smiled.

  “It’s unbearable being his sister sometimes. He charms everyone, and sometimes I had troubled realizing who were real friends and who were just trying to get to him. I’l be right back.” She cleared her plate and went to the kitchen. I heard her banging around. I assumed she was putting away the leftovers. She returned and sat back down. “Just so you know, tomorrow night wil be meatloaf, too; we have enough I think,” she sighed, relieved.

  “You’re going to make me fat if you keep cooking like this.” I patted my bel y that was ful . “What are you going to do for your speech next week?”

  “I have a couple ideas. What are you doing?” she asked mysteriously.

  “I have no ideas. I was hoping to steal one of yours.” She laughed at my joke.

  “Wel , I’d be happy to help.” She refil ed my cup with tea.

  “I have so much homework. Is yours done?” I took a drink.

  “Almost. Do you want to do it together? Maybe stay for a little while?” she asked shyly.

  “I’d love to.” I helped her clear the table. She said Alex would do the dishes, and I retrieved my bag from my car. She was waiting for me by the stairs, and we went up to her room. It was a smal room. She had a single bed that was up against the wal long-ways. She had pil ows against the wal , and it looked almost like a couch. Beside it were smal , white, shelved end tables on each side. Her dresser was in the corner with a tal mirror.

  She had two large windows that almost took up the far wal . She had a street view. Her closet stood in the corner near the windows. She had a black square box that looked like a smal suitcase, a blow dryer, and hair products, along with her laptop, sitting on the dresser. Al but for a couple posters of musical artists, her room was very impersonal. She didn’t have pictures anywhere; she had a clock radio with a music dock for her phone that sat on an end table and books stacked up on the other one. A guitar case leaned in the corner. She hit PLAY on her phone and music softly fil ed the room.

  “So this is your room,” I said.

  “We pretty much established that yesterday.” She smiled as she sat down cross-legged and pul ed an algebra book and note pad out of her bag. I dropped my bag to the floor and sat down beside her. It was so strange to be to be sitting here with her. I took out my notebook and my literature book. I turned to the poem by Edgar Al en Poe. I began my rough draft, outlining the meaning behind it and how it related to my life. She paused and watched me write.

  “Which poem are you writing about?” She leaned on her hand bracing her elbow on her knee.

  “ ‘Annabel Lee.’ Which one did you choose?”

  “ ‘The Raven.’ I like your handwriting. It’s real y plain for a boy.” She smiled as she watched me write.

  “My mom used to make me practice for hours in elementary school. She said she wasn’t raising a doctor, which was weird. You would think she would want me to make a lot of money when I grew up.” I laughed, remembering her tracing the letters and then making me do the same.

  “Maybe she was just holding out for a lawyer.” She giggled and nudged me. She went back to her homework.

  “Maybe.” I leaned back against her pil ows. “I’m blocked.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked up again from her homework.

  “I keep dropping footbal s. I’m going to cost us the game on Friday.” I couldn’t believe I was admitting it to her.

  “Why do you keep dropping it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, too much pressure, maybe?” I shrugged.

  “Have you pictured the other team naked?” Her face was serious.

  “No, I don’t think I want to picture that.” I looked at her and shrugged off the mental picture.

  “Have you pictured the coach naked?” She tapped her pencil against her chin.

  “Um, that’s worse!” I sat up and looked at her. A wicked smile crept across her lips.

  “You could picture the people in the stands naked,” she continued with her smile broadening.

  “I don’t want to see ANYONE naked.” My face turned bright red. I could feel the heat pushing its way out. I lied. There was one person I’d thought about seeing naked since the beginning of the week. I’d never admit it.

  “That’s too bad,” she smirked. Her whole intention was to embarrass me. It worked. I couldn’t even look at her.

  “I’m just teasing you; you’re so serious.” Her eyes burned into me. “You’re taking yourself too seriously.” I looked at her searchingly. My intentions were to help her, and here she was helping me.

  “It’s al in your mind. I’ve never had that much pressure and practicing can only get you so far.” She put her hand on my arm. “But if you just relax and enjoy the game, I bet you wil catch every bal that comes your way.” She patted me and turned back to her algebra.

  “Thanks.” I just watched her. After a few minutes, she looked up at me again.

  “You’re making me a little nervous; you should stop.” Her laugh was a little higher than usual. It was adorable.

  “I’m avoiding,” I sighed.

  “So what do you want to do?” She stretched out her legs; I put her feet in my lap and began to analyze her toes. She wiggled her toes and tried to pul her feet away, but I held them there.

  “What we’re doing now.” I smiled at her. She stil tried to wiggle her feet out. We laughed. I tightened my hold on her ankles and pul ed her down toward me. I began to tickle her, and she laughed. Our books fel to the floor, and I somehow ended up lying beside her, almost on top of her.

  Realizing at the same time how we were, our eyes held each other. We were both out of breath.

  “Thanks again.” I propped myself up on my elbow, and as I smoothed her hair from her face, loose curls spil ed onto the bed between us.

  “For what, being a weakling that you can tackle and torture?” she breathed.

  “For distracting me and reminding me to enjoy myself.” She just nodded. I put my hand on her stomach. We stared at each other—probably a little too long. I wanted to kiss her. I began to lean into her. I watched her lips part slightly. She took a deep breath and slowly closed her eyes and opened them again. Her chest was rising and fal ing against me. I was going to ki
ss her. I was going to do it. My lips inched closer to hers; I looked up to her eyes. She looked panicked. It took me by surprise. I leaned up over her. I sat back on my knees. She leaned up on her elbows.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, the look in her eyes now embarrassment.

  “No. I’m just—I think—I should go,” I said. I looked away as I reached for my books and stuffed them into my bag. I stood and left her room. She stood and fol owed me, but I ran down the stairs. I was through the dining room, zooming through the kitchen past Alex rinsing out the kitchen sink. I flew out the door. I didn’t even answer when he asked me, “You’re stil here dude?” I had to get out of there. What was I thinking? She wasn’t the kind of girl that you conned into her room to make out with before you took her out and showed her how a girl should be treated. I was an idiot. AND then I ran away. She thought she did something wrong. But clearly she wasn’t ready for our next step. I was pushing her instead of taking things slow.

  She didn’t do something wrong; I did.

  Chapter 8

  Friday Night Lights

  Gianna

  In fifth grade I went out with Jesse Busey for three weeks. He kissed me behind the fort on the playground. It was a kiss on the cheek because I turned my face. He broke up with me the next day by tel ing al the boys that I wouldn’t go to first base with him. That was the first and last boyfriend I’d ever had. I’d just done the equivalent to Travis. The only thing was, I didn’t turn my cheek. Something about me was off. Maybe I was too rigid; maybe my breath was stinky. I wasn’t sure, but something I did suddenly made me undesirable to him. I tried to catch him, but when I came to the kitchen, he was tearing out of the driveway. I wanted to cry. I looked at Alex, who was putting a folded dish towel in the dish drainer. He smiled at me like he was getting ready to ask me something. I locked the kitchen door and shrugged. I went back to my room. I fel on my bed face first. There was something wrong with me. This was proof. Final y, after listening to John Mayer’s version of “Free Fal ing ” on loop, I sat up and finished my homework. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, and came to my room to put on my pajamas. I crawled into my bed and fel asleep.