Maybe I am letting him occupy a little headspace.
Sydney nods. “I think it’s cool you’re not letting him drag you down, you know? Preston Prep is your territory. The school obviously only let him come back because they needed him on the football team.”
I shift uncomfortably at the thought of us being adversarial. Is that how other people see it? Is that how Reynolds sees it?
“Well, Emory’s happy to have him back. You know he lost a lot of friends in the senior class last year, including Campbell. If Reynolds being back gives him a friend, and helps him have a winning season, it’s worth it.”
Syd tosses her sweaty arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Even after everything you’ve been through, you’re still amazing, you know that?”
I shrug and lift the camera. She instantly shifts into a seductive pose, pursing her lips and lowering her eyelids. “This is for the newspaper!” I laugh.
“Oh, I know.” She flips her skirt. “I thought you were all about pushing boundaries this year!”
I take a few more photos of my friend, knowing good and well I am not going to submit these to the paper.
The buzzer on the scoreboard blares, a warning that the second half is about to begin. I wave to Sydney as she skips back over to the cheer squad, but I keep my eye on the fieldhouse door. She’s right, this is a year for pushing boundaries.
I just haven’t figured out exactly how far I want to go.
Preston Prep wins big, setting a positive tone for the season. I snap photos of Emory’s wide smile when the buzzer sounds, unable to stop my own grin at the sight of him like this, all radiant with the glow of victory. I try to take photos of the other guys, too, which is how I find Reynolds’s face suddenly filling my lens. He’s at Emory’s side, my brother’s arm slung loose around Reynolds’ neck as they walk. They’re like an exercise in contrast—Emory’s animated radiance and Reynolds’ hard-edged stillness. His head’s hanging down, something relieved and tired in the curve of his shoulders as he wipes his face with his jersey, but then Emory says something into his ear.
Reynolds lifts his head with a responding smile, those two dimples blooming like the sun over his sharp cheeks. My finger mashes down on the shutter, capturing an image so zoomed-in—so entirely irrelevant to football—that I know I could never submit it.
Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile is gone, replaced by something solemn and placid.
It’s a tradition for the families and friends of the team to wait outside the stadium, congratulating the team for their win. I always hate doing it. Luckily, this time I have an excuse.
“Mr. Lee said I could drop the camera off at the desk in the boys' dorm,” I tell my parents. Mr. Lee is one of the resident supervisors that lives on campus. “I’ll meet you at the car when I’m done?”
Mom’s face creases with worry. “Are you sure it’s safe to walk across campus at night alone?”
I give her a peeved look. “Seriously?”
Thankfully, Dad squeezes her arm. “Hon, it’s fine. Plenty of students are going back to the dorms anyway.” He gives me an encouraging nod. “Just hurry back, okay?”
“Yes,” I reply, and can’t head off fast enough, before they can change their mind.
It’s always depressing, after meeting the team. All of them are usually alight with excitement for their after-game plans, a whole night of fun teen antics spread out promisingly before them.
I just ride home with my parents, like a loser. Again.
Emory always has some post-game party or hang out. Last year, he would have gone wherever Campbell wanted, usually to a kegger at her parents’ house on the lake. He’d said he had plans with Aubrey Willis this weekend, so God only knows what he’ll get up to, but he’ll probably come home reeking of BWS.
Beer, weed, and sex.
Whatever happens, I’m sure Sydney will have all the gossip in the morning. I never go to parties. For one, I’m never invited, and no one ever asks me to come with them. But even if all those stars aligned, my parents would never let me. God, Emory himself would shit a brick if I showed up at something like that. I can just imagine the look on his face. He wouldn’t drag me home, he’d just end the party, right then and there, and these days? Emory absolutely had the power to do that.
I cross the quad toward Hayden, the boys' dormitory. Like Dad said, there are plenty of other students out. About half the students live on campus and most of those attend the home games. I follow a few guys into the dorm, thanking the one who patiently holds the door as I slowly climb the steps. I receive more than a few questioning looks, which is fair. Vandy Hall at the boys' dorm, at night? To see a guy?
Nope, just here on official Chronicle business.
God, I’m a loser.
I remove the memory card before leaving the camera in the office where Mr. Lee told me to, adding a note that I’d have my article written up by Monday. A weird feeling passes over me as I head back outside, the quad quieter than before. I close my eyes and inhale the late summer air. So, this must be what independence feels like—warmth and silence and calm—no questions or eyes or wild internal calculation as to how to justify what I’m doing. I’m still reveling in this as I approach the darkened area near the bell tower, the whole area shaded by the thick branches of ancient oaks.
I know all about the Devil’s tower, particularly the rumors surrounding the Stairway to Hell. It’s a stupid and cheesy name for a hookup spot, but the Devils love tradition, especially if it sets them apart from the rest of the student body. Obviously, I’ve never been up there—the thought alone makes me snort a laugh—but Sydney says that there’s a beam across the top where the Devils carve their initials, adding slash marks underneath for each of their conquests. It’s not the only way the Devils claim the girls they’re with. There’s also the Devil’s Marks—strategically-placed hickies under girls’ ears. There’s also some very specific rumors about ‘tests’. With Emory in the group, I’ve done my best to completely avoid that winding path of gossip. The less I know about my brother’s sex life, the better.