“How about you and Carter?” I asked. “Are you friends because of football?” I doubted this, since football seemed to be a sore subject between them.
“We both moved to town when we were nine,” he said. “I guess we found each other because we both were different. I was from California, and I’m Japanese, as you can see.” He moved his hand down his body, presenting himself, ta-da. “And Carter’s parents adopted him from Russia.”
“Russia!” I exclaimed. “Like, the country?”
“No, Russia, Ohio.”
I deserved that. Russia, like, the country? Good Lord. I’d made a clueless comment of Addison-esque proportions.
But Max seemed to like that. He’d asked her out, after all.
Then I second-guessed what Max had meant. Maybe he was serious. “Carter is from Russia, Ohio?”
Max rolled his eyes. “There’s no Russia, Ohio.”
That ticked me off. I was not as stupid as he seemed to think I was. “I’ll bet there is.” I unzipped my baton bag, pulled my phone from the side compartment, and got online. “Ha! It’s thirty-four miles north of Dayton.” I turned to him.
Again, he was closer than I expected, his face near my shoulder, leaning over to see my phone.
“You’re speechless,” I noted. “Probably for the first time all week.”
He smiled more broadly and watched me.
We eyed each other so long that I was sure he was looking right through me and could tell how hard I’d fallen for my best friend’s date.
I laughed nervously. “Carter’s from Russia?” I repeated. “He doesn’t have an accent.”
“Yes, he does,” Max said. “You’re not listening. It’s a lot more subtle now than when he was nine, though. The kids at school made fun of him.”
I winced, feeling sorry for nine-year-old Carter. “That’s terrible.”
“It was terrible when they made faces at me, too.” With his fingers, Max lifted the outside corners of his eyes.
“Yep. It was terrible when my bra was two cup sizes bigger, and boys called me Gemma Van Cleavage.”
I almost slapped my hand over my mouth. I could not believe I had said that to him. The problem with pretending to be extroverted was that once I started, there was no telling what would come out of my mouth.
But Max only laughed. “Yep.” Then he eyed me again. “So, listen.” At the last second, his gaze faltered. He looked down at his shorts and picked at a frayed spot on the hem. “What did Addison mean when she told you to keep your nose clean?”
Sure, I would tell him. I was taking a lot of perverse pleasure in making him realize he had chosen the wrong girl. I said without missing a beat, “She meant that I’d better not try to steal you from her.”
5
“You’d better not steal me from Addison?” Max repeated, sounding confused.
“Yes, and she’d better not steal Carter from me, either.” I pretended to ponder the possibility, as if such a misfortune would be very grave indeed. Then I laughed it off like I’d convinced myself I was being ridiculous. Dearest Addison would not steal my boyfriend!
“It’s our coach’s idea,” I explained. “Mrs. Baxter.” I said her name with my nose in the air. “She’s a million years old, and she runs the majorette line in a very traditional way. That’s not all bad. There are certain things we concentrate on, like following through with movements”—I reached my right arm in an arc as if I were holding a baton—“and putting our heads down when the baton goes down, and popping them up when the baton goes up.” I showed him the proper head movements with my long ponytails flying around and tickling my neck. “If you’re doing it right, you get your bouffant hairdo stuck in your tiara.”
“Tiara!” he laughed, incredulous.
“Yes!” I said. “The thing is, judges at band contests are looking for this sort of old-school follow-through, so our majorette line gets terrific marks. But the downside is that Mrs. Baxter is old school in other ways too. She is watching us.” I moved in and gave Max the evil eye just like Mrs. Baxter did.
“We’re not supposed to steal each other’s boyfriends or get in arguments in the lunchroom,” I said. “We are supposed to behave like young ladies, and she had better not hear anybody talking about us behind our backs. She says we have to keep our noses clean, and when she says this, she actually touches her finger to her nose, just like Addison did.” I repeated the gesture. “I guess I shouldn’t have a problem with any of that. I’m not the boyfriend-stealing type.”
“You’re not?” he asked.
“No. Sorry.” I patted his knee playfully and wished he really did look rueful.
“But I resent this old lady getting all up in my business,” I said. “I just want to twirl, you know? She acts like we’re role models for the rest of the school. I’m thinking . . . on what planet? We’re dancing with batons in skimpy, glittery outfits in front of any lecher who pays for a ticket into the football stadium. We are the modern-day equivalent of the dance hall girl.”
Honestly, I was still doing my extroverted act, trying to get through this awkward time with the guy my best friend had already claimed. I didn’t expect him to be interested. Or to converse with me. When several seconds of silence passed, I figured he’d zoned out.
Then he said very seriously, “Football players get that role model speech too. When adults say shit like that, I guess they’re thinking you’re always a role model when you can do something that takes guts and concentration. Though I’m not sure why guts and concentration are so important in the adult world. It’s like they want all of us to grow up to be high-rise construction workers.”
I giggled. “Or dance hall girls!”
“Or something,” he agreed.
“Anyway, we majorettes have to keep our noses extra clean for the next few weeks,” I said, “because we have a vote coming up right after the first game—the game we play against you guys—to see who will be next year’s head majorette.”
“And you’re up for head majorette?” he prompted me.
Me? “Yeah, technically, Addison and a girl named Delilah and I are all up for it. We’re the only three rising juniors on the majorette line. The rest are seniors. It has to be one of us. It’s definitely not going to be me. Delilah has stage fright. Addison isn’t worried. She’ll get it for sure.”
“And you don’t want it?” he asked.
I should have said no. Instead, I shrugged, as if the answer might be yes. I had no idea why I did that. The vote for head majorette was just another popularity contest, this time among the majorettes rather than the whole school. I didn’t want to win a popularity contest over Addison. I didn’t care at all. Did I?
But because I didn’t give Max a firm negative, he looked at me probingly for another long moment. Then he asked, “What are your duties as head majorette?” Funny, he phrased it as if I were actually going to get this position.
And as I described it to him, for the first time I pictured myself in the role. “I would stand in the middle of the football field and twirl my baton on the fifty yard line, while my fellow majorettes were banished to the forty-five and the forty and the thirty-five. And whereas all the other majorettes would wear a blue sequined leotard, I would wear a white one, appearing to glow like a gargantuan pearl, which is what every girl dreams of. I would greet the visiting band officers during games along with the drum major of the band, the drum captain, the flag captain, and so forth. I would be an ambassador of the baton, if you will.”
Max laughed a deep belly laugh as he coughed out, “But why do you vote this year for next year’s head majorette?”
“Well, you’re the head majorette–elect. You watch the current head majorette and learn from her. The rest of the junior majorettes have to try out again in the spring to make the squad for their senior year, but the head-elect automatically gets on the squad.”
Max grinned. “Like on a reality show? She’s granted immunity and can’t be voted off the island?”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed. “And there’s a reason. If we didn’t have a head-elect who was immune, it’s conceivable that when Addison, Delilah, and I tried out next spring, none of us would make it. An entirely different set of girls could be on the squad. So you’d have a whole team of first-year majorettes, and nobody would know what was going on. Mrs. Baxter wants somebody with experience to help her out.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yeah. But it’s not fair. We perform at one game and vote for head majorette at the end of it. It’s just a popularity vote—and a continuation of the whole tryout process. Did you know we had to do a routine in front of the whole school? Most of the people voting for us had no idea how good or bad we were. They were voting only for how we looked. It’s a miracle I made the line.” I shook my head, thinking back to that awful day last April. “I was heavier then, and I lost sleep over it. Judging people on how they look isn’t fair.”
He put his elbow on his thigh and his chin in his hand and leaned way forward, examining me. “It may not be fair,” he said slowly, “but it’s life. Try being the Japanese guy going out for the football team.”
“At least the whole school isn’t watching you and voting you up or down,” I pointed out.
“I feel like they are, every time I attempt a kick.” As he said this, he shifted his hand over his mouth like he was uncomfortable.
I reached out to touch his hand and pull it away from his mouth. I was so focused on him that it didn’t occur to me how personal the move was until I did it and he gazed at me with those dark eyes.
Determined not to show my embarrassment, I reassured him, “Every time you make a kick.”
He swallowed. “Right.” A weird moment ticked by as we held hands—like I’d suddenly become the self-assured one, and he needed the boost.
We both jumped as the train doors slid open.
“We’re here,” he murmured vaguely, grabbing his bag from the floor. I didn’t say so, but following him off the train, I felt just as disoriented as he was acting. My hand tingled where it had touched his warm hand.
A few other passengers got off the train with us and immediately disappeared up the stairs to the parking deck. The train moved out of the station while Max and I stood there awkwardly on the platform, facing each other.
Finally he motioned toward the stairs with his head and said, “I’m parked in the deck. Are you?”
“My mom’s coming to get me,” I said. “I’m not sixteen yet.”
“Oh, you’re just a baby!”
This was such a weird thing for a boy to say. But his whole face lit up when he said it, until I laughed along.
“But you said you’ll be a junior?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m turning sixteen in three weeks.”
“From today?”
“From yesterday.”
His brows knitted for a moment like he was filing this information away for later. “So you’re just young for our class.”
“Pretty much.” I hated it, too. I couldn’t wait until I got my license. I wouldn’t have to rely on anybody for a ride again.
Except . . . I was beginning to look forward to Max picking me up for my date with Carter.
“Well.” He shifted his football bag to his other hand. “Why don’t I drive you home?”
“Um.” I wanted so badly for him to drive me home. But I wanted more than that from him. I wanted a chance with him. And that awful feeling of longing coupled with doom was exactly how I’d felt about Robert for the last two years.
When I didn’t answer, Max asked, “Is that creepy? I don’t fit the profile of a serial killer, you know.”
I laughed. “That is what all serial killers say. That’s how they draw their victims in.”
“Good point.”
“No, it’s just that my mom’s already on her way.”
He plopped his bag down between his feet, holding it by the strap, and cocked his head at me. He looked adorable that way, with his hair hanging longer on one side. “Can I wait with you until your mom comes?”
YES. “You don’t have to,” I said. “It’s not exactly a dangerous part of town.”
“That’s what all serial killer victims say. I would feel better.”
A southbound train pulled in with a short honk and a spooky whine of rushing air. In the morning when I’d caught the MARTA, the skylights overhead had let in plenty of sun. In the evening, though, the light was fading, the station was deserted, and all the textured gray concrete with decorative metal scaffolding made the place about as inviting as a jail in space. I’d never felt uncomfortable on the train in the year my mom had let me ride it by myself, but I was glad to have Max with me. I supposed I could indulge him and let him wait with me.
“The street exit is this way,” I said. We headed for the stairwell. After three flights down, we popped into the warm evening. A busy mall was just around the corner, but this area was quieter. We walked to the concrete bench at the pull-in where my mom would meet me.
As we sat down, Max asked, “Did Addison tell you I’m picking you up on Friday? I need your address.”
Electricity rushed through my veins at his mention of picking me up . . . even though we’d be carpooling to his date with Addison.