if he knew you were saying these things about him?
I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that
At least he’s there with you
I’m the one he abandoned
Left me here all by myself
Barely even calls to see how I’m doing
And look at you
Just like him
Did you even ask me about the new art class I signed up for?
I’ll have to—
You know what, Ma
Never mind
Don’t even bother.
five
Harper Apple
Neither of us have a car, so that evening finds a dude named Tater Bug dropping off me and Jolene at the Faulkner High field. Jolene may not be popular, but she seems to have a small army of dudes wrapped around her finger and willing to do her favors when she needs them. It may have something to do with her chest size. I have only mad respect for her. A girl’s gotta work with what she’s got.
“Text me when the game’s about over,” Tater Bug says, leaning down to call out the passenger side window, which is ringed with tape where he had a trash bag until Jolene insisted he take it down.
“I will,” she says, blowing him a kiss like she’s forgotten that she didn’t want anyone popular to see her getting out of his old hooptie. She leans in the window and smiles adoringly at the gawky guy. “Unless you want to go with? You can buy us popcorn.”
“I ain’t allowed in on account of a certain streaking incident that occurred last year,” he says, grinning back at her and flipping his floppy mohawk out of his eyes. “But I got a Coke for my favorite girl.” He hands her a can of Dr. Pepper, and she squeals with happiness. After a few more minutes of flirting, Jolene retreats from his window, and we head into the game, the soda hidden in Jolene’s shirt.
“Oh my God, that’s them,” Jolene says as we sit down. “That’s the Dolces.” Her nails dig into my arm as she points to a bunch of guys in pads. They all look the same to me. “That’s Royal, he’s a star. Like, might go to the NFL one day, will definitely play college ball. And that’s Duke, oh, and Baron…”
I snort. “That family certainly thinks highly of their sons.”
“With good reason. Oh my god, together they’re unstoppable. We don’t have a chance. I mean, they creamed us last year, and Royal was only a junior.” By the time she finishes her tirade, her voice is a squeak of excitement and she’s bouncing in her seat.
“You do know that’s not the team we’re supposed to be cheering for, right?”
“I really need a drink,” she says. “My nerves are already fried, and the game hasn’t even started.”
I’m familiar with the football lust that takes over our town for half of every year, but I wasn’t expecting Jolene to be quite so into it. By halftime, I still don’t get what the fuss is all about. I mean, sure, the guys look good in their tight pants, even with the pads. Royal Dolce can throw a pass, I’ll give him that, but so can our QB. With the helmets on, though, I still can’t tell if the guys are the ones who took my picture, and that’s the only reason I’m here.
At halftime, we split the warm Dr. Pepper and watch the cheerleaders, Lindsey and Elaine and all the others, shaking their pompoms and smiling their perma-smiles. I try to imagine what my life would be like if football—or anything—meant that much to me. I remember Jolene trying to convince me to join the Pep Squad in junior high, but I knew we didn’t have the money, so I said no. Turns out, they had loaner uniforms for poor kids, and she was on the squad all that year. She was in heaven, even though she was never a cheerleader like these girls.
I glance over at her, trying to see if it bothers her to watch them, since she didn’t make it onto the squad when we went to high school. Or I assume that’s what happened. I wasn’t in school much that year, and we drifted apart. I spent most of my nights fighting and gambling to earn money for paint or prowling Faulkner, hunting for Zephyr Hertz like a stalker, so I could watch him work and learn from him when I found him. And then I slept while everyone else went to school. Took almost being held back a year to knock some sense into me, for me to realize that graffiti wasn’t going to get me anything but arrested. So, a year ago I stopped painting and started saving.
“I can’t take this,” Jolene says. “Let’s go smoke under the bleachers.”
We make our way down. I don’t ask for a smoke because I don’t spend money on them. I save every penny for a one-way ticket out. But I accept when Jolene offers to share one. I inhale the bitter smoke and let my head fall back, exhaling toward the stands above, where all the families in Faulkner mill about. At no other time could you see all the town gathered this way, but it’s still divided. The Willow Heights side of the stands is full of all the rich people, the families with money, the important people.
Above us, it’s a sea of black and brown and white faces, half of them bi-racial or tri-racial or some kaleidoscope like me; lots of poor and middle class with a few rich families mixed in. Our side is Faulkner. Willow Heights’ side is another dimension, another reality, another world. And I’m about to cross the invisible, unspoken line, the one that keeps our schools apart. I’m about to break the barrier, to dare to speak to them as if we’re equals. But I don’t care about that shit right now. I care about saving my future.