“You writing her a poem, Jonah?” A divot forms between his brows and his mouth hangs open in anticipation of my answer. He’s dead serious, and because of his reaction I know there is no way I am ever writing a girl anything and sharing it with him.
“They’re things my dad wrote. I copied it from the notebook. Just random stuff in margins and sometimes on receipts.” I shirk off the penetration of his stare because I sense the way it shifts from teasing to pity. He clears his throat after a few seconds and I glance to him, his mouth a tight, apologetic line.
“Sorry, man,” he says, sliding his palm forward a few inches on the table for effect. I shake my head and get to my feet.
“It’s fine,” I say, clearing away my trash.
I decide to pass the last remaining minutes of lunch waiting for the others while sitting on the back of Jake’s car. He doesn’t drive anything fancy. It’s a sedan that only makes the obnoxious noise it does because he talked one of his friends into jacking with the tailpipe, something he has suggested we do to the Bronco a dozen times. He just can’t fathom not wanting attention. Part of why our friendship works is because I gladly give him any that drifts our way. I am happy to not share spotlights.
I’m busy calculating how fast Jake’s going to have to drive to get us back to school on time when a delicate hand slinks up my arm and squeezes at my shoulder. I shiver from it, even in my layered long-sleeved T-shirt and hoodie. I jerk to the side and am met with Gemma’s hand holding out this bright blue and yellow hair tie.
“I’m good. I keep it kinda short,” I joke, running my hand through my hair. When Gemma’s hand lands on top of mine, I tense. No, I petrify.
“It’s a cute length,” she says, a raspy giggle added at the end. I’m starting to see why Jake has become so helpless in her presence. Granted, I’m pretty sure he gets compliments like this on the daily.
I pull my hand out from under hers, which I realize a little too late maybe offended her. It definitely embarrassed her because now she’s sucking in her bottom lip and looking down and off to the side.
“Sorry,” I say at the same exact time she does.
We both breathe out a laugh.
“Here,” she says, handing me the hair tie that started this whole thing.
“Oh-kay?” I take it from her and stretch it out with my fingers, not quite sure what I’m meant to do with it.
“For Elle—Eleanor?”
I nod, but my puckered smile and scrunched eyes must give away how confused I still am. Gemma waggles her head and laughs politely, tugging at the elastic band still in my hand.
“I made them for us, for tonight’s game. Just didn’t feel right that she doesn’t have hers, even though she won’t be here. I want her to have it.”
Gemma has more depth than I gave her credit for. I nod again, eyes clearer, and tuck the satin cloth into the front pocket of my hoodie. I keep it there, clutched in my fist, as I slip into my friend’s car and make room for a girl I find to be a little less of a stranger, and a lot more genuine. She hunkers down on my thigh and leans sideways into my chest. I put an arm around her because I feel obligated to do something to keep her from flying through this windshield, but I note how her eyes never leave Jake’s presence as we rush back to campus. It’s pretty clear she really likes him, despite being liberal with her flirting. I hope he doesn’t break her heart.
Six
It’s cold enough outside that I can hear the announcers at the high school football field. Their voices don’t carry far enough to be clearly audible, but when they shrill with excitement, joined by a roaring crowd, I can tell when our team is doing well.
Jake has quit asking me to go to the games. I usually make it to at least one football game every season, and this year I got it out of the way early with our home opener. It’s the crowds that get to me, mostly. Besides, I need to save up my inner super strength for basketball season so I can watch Jake play. And since tomorrow’s my birthday, I don’t think forcing me out of my comfort zone is something he could justify.
Sounds like I missed a good one tonight. From my last count of the distant blare of trumpets and pounding snares and base drums, we’ve scored four times this hour. Of course, there aren’t any sounds for the opponent’s side, so it could be a high-scoring game on both sides. We aren’t exactly known for our defense—or for football, period.
I’ve had the garage open the entire first half. Once again, the street is quiet and peaceful. Other than a few tiny spray paint marks the police left on the roadway, there isn’t a single sign of the full-blown media feeding frenzy at the end of my driveway. That doesn’t mean things are back to normal, though; far from it. The Trombley house is dark, minus the dim glow of the single-bulb porch light next to their front door. Morgan’s SUV is pulled all the way up to the closed garage. So is the Volkswagen. There is no spirit paint to celebrate the exciting game happening down the road. No need for any of that since Eleanor isn’t on the sidelines. I’ve been waiting for her to at least come to her window or step outside. Maybe I’m naïve but I have this sense that she misses it, her life from
