“Are you sure you want to sit with the freshmen? I mean . . .” Jake doesn’t quite grasp why anyone would do this. Even when he was a freshman he did not sit with the freshmen. It’s harder to see things up front, at least if you’re watching the game. I couldn’t give two shits about our one-and-eight football team, though.
“I’ll be fine. Honestly, I might even be the popular guy down there. Those fourteen-year-old girls think I’m a sophisticated older man.” I tug the neck of my long-sleeved shirt as if I’m wearing a tie. Jake jerks with a laugh and rolls his eyes.
“There is nothing about you that looks sophisticated in that thing,” my friend says, pointing to the hat on my head. I’m still without my beanie, so I had to settle for my Cubs hat which is, apparently, a dad-hat style. Flat brims are where it’s at.
My shoulders sag with his confidence deflator.
“It’s better than my hair,” I say, pulling it off briefly to unveil hair that at this point is probably in need of a cut. My friend studies it for a minute and shakes his head.
“I don’t know. It’s really a toss-up.” He turns and walks up the bleachers to where the rest of his basketball teammates are waiting for him. They’re all decked out in our school colors, some of them going so bold as to paint Badgers on their chests and wear their shirts tied around their heads.
I turn to the roomy area on my right where a few freshmen girls share a bag of popcorn, and I smile when they look up at me.
“Oh, my God!” The one talking actually looks repulsed while the other two laugh, and they huddle in closer. I think they’re hoping I will pass and sit nowhere close to them.
I sigh.
They get their wish as I slip to the very front row, behind the trash can. I’ve thought this through, and nobody hovers around that can, which means if I need to stand and lean over the rail to talk to Eleanor, I shouldn’t have to fight my way through a crowd.
I wore my gas-station-style shirt over my gray long-sleeved shirt and black jeans. I couldn’t look less full of spirit, but that wasn’t part of my thought process. I think I look good in this shirt. Or I did, until a few minutes ago when three freshmen girls brought me down a big notch.
The drums from our marching band kick in from behind the bleachers, so I get to my feet. Cheer walks in with the band. It’s literally the one programming note I have memorized. I’ve spent every game I’ve attended waiting for this part so I could watch Eleanor Trombley march in at the front of the line.
She isn’t first this time, but that’s okay. I think she asked for it to be that way, not wanting the eyes on her. People still whisper. Not so much the students but their parents. Gossip keeps people going, and it seems to be a primary fodder of choice for adults of a certain age and income.
I catch the grin on my face when my eyes meet hers, and I can’t be certain but I think her eyes widen seeing me. I clap along with the band, which is something only band parents do it seems, but I’ve already started so I keep the habit up through the fight song while I stand by myself, sheltered by a trash can that smells of old soda.
“Let’s go, Badgers!” The cheer squad yells in unison, but it’s only Eleanor’s voice I hear.
Her lips are a bright red, and her cheeks sport the same blue and yellow hearts they wore last Friday night, only this time they’re accompanied by high, rosy cheeks. This is where she belongs.
I keep my spot protected, manspreading, as my mom calls it, to keep other people from sitting directly next to me. I stand for kick-off, but keep my eyes on Eleanor rather than the crappy defense that lets the other team get away with a sixty-yard return. I don’t sit until she tells me to—literally. She spins to face the crowd and completes a few jumps before holding her hands at her hips and mouthing my name.
I cup my ear, unable to hear her. She steps closer to the rail and I get excited for a minute because everyone sees her talking to me. This is literally a scene out of a dream I once had.
“You can sit now!” She points with her finger in a downward motion, and my face burns red hot.
“Sorry,” I say, smiling through gritted teeth. A few people near me laugh, and I let my eyes flutter as they roll behind my lids. Eleanor is still smiling when I open them again, and that is all that matters.
I decide to stay close to the bench for the first half, not that there is much to stand for at a Badger game. Eleanor seems mostly in her element, catching on to a few new routines and following Gemma from behind. She seems a little winded when the buzzer sounds and the team heads to the locker rooms for half time, so I decide to step closer to the track and see if she needs me to get her a snack or something more exciting than ice water.
Navigating toward the field is a little like salmon swimming upstream to spawn, but eventually I make it to the small walkway along the track. I lean over the fence and hold up a hand, trying to get Eleanor’s attention, but her coach steps into the space between us, blocking her view. I back up into the
