Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
Quentin squints. Funnily enough, he looks just like James Gandolfini when he does it. “You a team guy?” he asks.
The winning smile I send his way must dazzle the shit out of him. “Sure am.” I refrain from mentioning that Maeve’s file on me clearly states, ‘Does Not Play Well With Others’ in big, bold letters on the very first page.
“Alright, then. Suicides. Move. And don’t you dare stop running ’til I say you can stop.”
* * *
BETTY
I’m sure he can’t see me, but I feel the need to duck down behind the bleachers all the same. Pathetic, really. Technically, the fact that I’m here, watching Marcus try out for the football team is not my fault. I can’t help it if I just so happened to decide to eat my lunch here today…
This should be the last place I’d want to come, really, what with this being Jacob’s territory, but the team is rarely out here during lunch. On the odd occasion Coach has them out here running drills, I make sure I’m far, far away, usually in the library, or taking refuge in my car. Today, I figured I would risk an unwelcome encounter in the hopes that I could watch what goes down with New Guy.
I keep calling him that in my head, hoping the tactic will force some mental space between Marcus and me, but so far it hasn’t been all that successful.
I don’t even know why I care about him. Yeah, he’s attractive, but before, when I was hanging out with Kacey and the girls, I would have screwed up my nose at him, deeming him too low on the social food chain to warrant my attention. The tattoos alone would have had me hugging the opposite walls of the hallways whenever he was around, purely so the other girls wouldn’t have thought I was interested in any way. There was a lot of that kind of stuff before-me acting in particular ways, to make sure I was always seen in a particular light by Kacey and the Sirens. Mostly Kacey.
But now…it’s almost freeing in a way, my exile from the glory of Kacey Winters’ good graces. I find that I’m learning more and more about myself every day, now that I’m no longer trying to be her. And it turns out, for better or for worse, that I’m reluctantly attracted to the hostile bastard that’s currently sprinting back and forth up and down the length of the football field.
I unwrap the sub I made myself this morning and take a bite. I relish the burn of the hot sauce I slathered all over the sandwich, enjoying the reaction in my mouth as Coach halts Marcus and sets him to linemen drills, getting him to alternate between hitting and blocking on the padded blocking sled he’s set up on the field. Marcus doesn’t even break a sweat. Correction: Marcus does break a sweat. A large, dark patch forms in the red material of his t-shirt, right between his shoulder blades, and I find myself transfixed by the idea that he would fall prey to such a regular, normal physical response; it feels as though he should be exempt from all mundane, everyday bodily functions.
What I mean to say is that he makes every single challenge Coach Quentin throws his way look easy. Far too easy. He’s going to ace this tryout, and then he’s going to be on the fucking football team. Marcus may have made a show of being disagreeable with Jacob this morning, but there’s no way he can join the football team and not be in Jake’s back pocket. Literally no way. Jake’s father paid for the damn college-level field Marcus is standing on right now. Mr. Weaving also pays for a team nutritionist, a sport’s physiotherapist, and a masseuse for the players before especially big, critical games. Darhower would never allow anything to jeopardize that. Marcus could be the best football player in the world, and he would still be booted from the team if Jake decreed it so.
I look down, finding to my surprise that my sub is gone. I’ve eaten every last bite without registering it, as I’ve followed Marcus’s form up and down the field. My cold brew coffee’s vanished, too. Should have paid more attention. The cold brew’s usually my favorite part of lunch, and now I’m just sitting here with the sour, metallic taste of unease in my mouth. Justified, it seems, when Coach Quentin reaches out to shake Marcus’s hand. If I needed a sign that this was a done deal, then the handshake is it.
Coach Quentin gives Marcus several papers-probably the team practice schedule and their calendar of preliminary games-then he stalks off the field, leaving Marcus standing there, staring down at the papers with a bewildered, unhappy look on his face that I find instantly confusing. He was determined to gain extra credit. Like, determined. A guy like him, on his last warning before jail? There’s a reason why he needs that extra credit, and it’s an important one. I would have thought making it onto the team would have made him happy, but the look on his face is far from it as he clenches his hand around the papers and he slowly makes his way back toward the locker rooms.
It’s lucky that I made him put his cell number into my phone earlier in the bathroom. I’m going to need to give him the bad news. It doesn’t matter if I’m attracted to him or not: if he’s going to wind up being just another one of Jacob’s puppets, then I won’t be teaching him guitar. I doubt he’ll lose a moment’s peace over it, but I also won’t be associating myself with him again. Whatever brief acquaintanceship was forged between us during our two, equally brief encounters just fizzled out and died an irreparable death. I, Betty Branson, will never be speaking to Marcusandro Moretti again.
MARCUS POV
I find the piece of paper wedged inside the vents of my locker door; I almost don’t even bother to unfold and read it, but my own damned curiosity gets the better of me. It’s a flyer. An invite, really.
‘Scuntapalooza ??Chez Leon. Friday night @ 8. BYOB!’
Scuntapalooza? I’m not even gonna pretend to know what the fuck that means. Printed on the red paper in black ink is a crude drawing of Big Foot smoking a giant joint, with veiny, bloodshot eyes. I laugh to myself at the BYOB remark. I haven’t been introduced to a Leon yet, but he’s a fucking sad sack if he hasn’t figured out how the hell to get his hands on a keg or two at the ripe old age of seventeen. I ball up the flyer in my hand and I lob it at the trash can; the projectile arcs perfectly through the air and disappears.
“Nice. Didn’t even touch the sides.”
I turn toward the female voice, half expecting to find Betty standing beside me, but it isn’t her. Instead, a girl with bright, startling green eyes and skin the color of honeyed cinnamon is leaning against the locker next to mine, her head resting up against the locker door. Her hair’s a wild mass of corkscrew curls, tumbling around her face to her shoulders. First thought:
you’re pretty enough. Second thought:
now go the fuck away.
She smiles broadly, expectantly, like she’s waiting for me to drop down to my knees and worship her. I’m sure guys do that a lot around her. She could have been an Egyptian Goddess in a past life. “Shouldn’t be so quick to turn down an invite like that, though,” she tells me. “They don’t come around very often.”
“Doubt I’m missing anything.” I dump my notebook in my locker and slam the door closed, pushing away. I’m hoping she won’t follow…but she does.
“I’m Zen, by the way.” She rolls her eyes playfully. “I know. Weird name, right? My parents are the biggest hippies.”
“They must be really disappointed in you then.”
She falters, irritation flashing in her cat-like eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Hippies don’t often bring up daughters to lust after three-hundred-dollar purses.” I point down at the black leather obscenity dangling off her arm, and she slaps a hand to a chest, feigning surprise like she just noticed the damn thing hanging there.
“Oh, wow. Yeah, this was expensive. Thank you. You get what you pay for with products like this though, right?”