He starts the truck and turns around in the driveway, navigating the bumps carefully. Kendall glances at him and slumps against her door, hugging her book bag. She stares out the window as he turns onto the gravel road. She looks over her family’s farm, and she hates this day. Hates everything about it. She sees her father up on the big combine as Jacian’s truck picks up speed. Her father doesn’t see her. He’s trying desperately to catch up for all the time he spent searching for Nico, she knows. She won’t see much of him until after harvest is over.
They drive in silence. Jacian pulls into the dirt parking area next to the school building. He parks and turns off the ignition and sits there. Kendall looks at him, and then back at her lap.
“You talked to Coach,” she says.
He nods. Doesn’t look at her.
“What did he say about the team?”
He pulls the keys from the ignition. Opens his door. “He said he’ll let us know what’s going to happen at practice today.” He clears his throat and gets out of the truck. Heads for the door to the school and goes inside.
Kendall gets out too and shuts the door. Watches the students coming to school in groups now. And then she feels her chest tighten. She remembers all of her rituals — the wastebasket, the markers, the curtains, straightening the desks. Her heart drops and she hurries inside, sees that some of the students are already sitting down. Fear stabs through her. This can’t happen.
Everything is thrown off, and she can’t let anybody see how weird she is. Anxiously she glances at the wastebasket and nudges it with her foot until it’s properly turned. The markers are askew so she saunters over to them as if she’s going to draw a silly picture on the white board like some of the other students do.
Instead she bumps the tray and knocks them onto the floor. She picks them up again and puts them in their proper order. And then she goes over to the windows where other students mingle, whispering about how weird it is to be back after what happened, again. She tugs at the curtains that she can reach and lines them up, pretending like she’s looking for someone. One window remains blocked, people standing in her way. She bites her lip anxiously, trying to maneuver a path, but finally she just gives up and leaves it. She hurries over to the senior section, trying to straighten a few desks as she goes, and feeling an overwhelming failure. She knows it’s not going to be right. She doesn’t notice Jacian watching her, a look of mild curiosity on his face.
She slips into her desk next to Jacian and taps her fingers anxiously, unable to do anything about it. It’s going to bother her all day, she knows. Maybe at lunch she can take care of things.
And then, when she sets her backpack on the floor, she turns to her right, like she’s done every day for twelve years. To talk to Nico.
And no one is there. His desk is empty.
Every bad thing comes rushing at her. Every emotion — surprise, grief, fear, anger. She gasps a little as she experiences the moment she’s been dreading for days now. And then she feels the rush of a sob coming so fast and hard she can’t stop it.
“Fuuuck,” she gasps. She buries her head in her arms on her desk and fights it for as long as she can.
She doesn’t want to cry anymore. Not here, especially not now. Not in front of everybody. Because
Kendall’s supposed to be strong. She’s tough. She’s grown up with boys surrounding her. She played and got hurt with them on the playground, and she didn’t cry then. She broke her nose playing dodgeball in seventh grade when Eli Greenwood winged one at her face from six feet away, and she didn’t cry thennot for real, just the stinging tears that happen automatically when your nose gets hit. And she even broke her arm when she jumped off the bag swing at its highest point, at the river with Nico where he liked to fish with his dad. Totally missed the water, landed on the bank. It was a drought summer that year.
She didn’t cry then, either, but Nico carried her home, the bone just barely piercing through the skin of her forearm, and even though she said she didn’t want him to carry her, she really was a little bit too faint over seeing her own bone to fight it too hard.
That was the first day he kissed her.
And now here she is, bawling in front of all the boys she grew up with.
Almost all, that is. The most important one is missing.
That makes her cry harder.
After a minute she feels a hand squeezing her shoulder. Hears a voice by her ear. “It’s okay, Kendall.”
It’s Eli Greenwood’s voice. Kendall takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries again to contain her sorrow. She lifts her head. Eli is crying too.
She rummages for a tissue in her backpack. “Sorry, guys,” she says. “Stupid me. God.” She feels embarrassed. “Where’s a tissue when you need it, huh?” She knows her nose must be bright red. She sniffs hard.
“Dude, it’s cool,” Travis says from behind her. Even Brandon isn’t saying anything. She glances at him, and he looks miserable.
They’ve all been affected. For the seniors this hit feels so much more personal than Tiffany Quinn.
Kendall thinks maybe she knows a little better how Tiffany’s closest friends must have felt. She looks over to the sophomore section and catches the eye of Tiffany’s best friend, Jocelyn. The girl gives Kendall a sympathetic smile, and Kendall smiles gratefully in return.
Jacian, quiet all this time, but watching, points a finger toward the front of the classroom, where Ms.
Hinkler stands, trying to get the students’ attention. “You still need a tissue?” he asks gruffly. “I’ll get you one.”
“No, I’m okay,” Kendall says. “Thanks.”
Jacian nods as Eli goes back to his seat. Everyone settles in to try to concentrate.
For most of them the only way to get through it is by moving on.
Somehow she makes it through to lunch, when she gets a chance to straighten the curtain and the desks. She can’t stand to go outside to eat lunch in their spot. She can hardly stand to look at Nico’s desk. It’s so empty. So cold.
By afternoon she can no longer concentrate at all, and even Ms. Hinkler is giving her a free pass indefinitely to lay her head down and just try to get through it.
When school is over, there’s nothing Kendall wants more than to play some soccer. Get the whirlwind out of her head. Work out the grief and the anxiety. Think about something else for a change.
She suits up in the locker room, alone again without Marlena, and makes a little wish that Coach has found more players to join the team before they miss another game. Tomorrow is the next one scheduled in Bozeman. She runs out to the field and starts warming up. Counting to thirty for every stretch, counting her steps as she jogs in place. Slowly the others join her. She counts them, just to make sure.
Four seniors. One freshman. Only one sophomore now. Six.
Coach is late, and the team falls into a three-on-three scrimmage naturally, anxiously. Kendall feels naked without Nico there. They had so many plays together. So much nonverbal communication. Years of it. There’s no quick fix when you’re missing that.
Jacian is also looking a little bit lost for plays without Marlena. The two end up on the same team with
Brandon, and they fail miserably, like it’s their first game ever.
They scrimmage for twenty painful minutes before Coach shows up. When he strides onto the field, everybody comes to a standstill. He waves them all in.
“Guys,” he says. Kendall notices the wrinkles by his eyes for the first time. He looks tired. He waits for everybody to quiet, glancing at his clipboard, fingering the whistle around his neck.
“Hey, guys, gather up. It’s good to see you again.” He gives a grim smile. “Wish it were under better circumstances. We’ve lost two of our best at the moment. Update, Jacian?”
“She had a rough night, but she’s tough.” Jacian’s dark skin gleams with sweat in the afternoon sun.
“Doc says she won’t play this season at all, though.” He looks down. “Sorry, guys. She feels bad.”
Kendall looks at the grass.
“And you’ve all figured out by now that we’re down to six. Last year we played with nine and it was tough. This year with eight would have been already approaching impossible. It’s different with one game, but game after game for a whole season. .” Coach pauses. He shakes his head as if he doesn’t want to say what he has to say
