The One That I Want(8)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“We’re taking the MARTA home,” Addison chirped, “but we’re stopping by the Varsity for dinner first.”

This was not strictly true. Addison had said we should stop there for dinner. I had told her no. The Varsity served killer burgers and dogs and fries. It was exactly the kind of place I tried to stay away from now that I was losing weight.

“Y’all want to come with us?” she asked.

“Addison,” I said sternly. “They could be serial killers.”

“That’s a separate camp,” said my guy.

“We could be the serial killers,” Addison protested. “Are you boys scared we’ll attack you if you walk to the Varsity with us? Chicken? Bock-bock-bock!” She led the way out of the stadium, with the guy formerly known as my guy beside her.

Shaking my head to clear it of the pain, I used my baton as a walking stick and hoisted myself up from the bench. With nothing else to do but trail along like lost puppies, the quarterback and I fell in behind Addison and my kicker. Awk. Ward!

So it was clear from the beginning that Addison and my guy, her chosen one, were bonding. The odd man out and I, who had no interest in each other, were waiting around for them until they finished.

I should have been thrilled that we were hanging with these boys who didn’t know I’d been fifty pounds heavier last November. Their names were Clean and Slate. But if I’d thought my only problem was being overweight, that idea faded as I tried to come up with something to say to this blond demigod. All the stars were aligned and I still couldn’t make small talk. Meanwhile, Addison walked ahead of us, chatting away with my guy.

In these situations I found it best to call up a surge of adrenaline and pretend to be extroverted. I’m not saying it was best. My extroverted imitation tended to get out of hand sometimes. I’m just saying I found it best. I switched my baton bag to my left hand and stuck out my right hand. “I’m Gemma Van Cleve, by the way.”

“I’m Carter Nelson.” The blond took my hand and moved it up and down gently, like he was afraid of breaking it. Which was good, because his huge, meaty paw could have wrapped around my hand twice if he were exceedingly limber and human anatomy worked that way.

“And that’s Max Hirayama.” He nodded toward my guy and Addison as we emerged onto the tree-lined sidewalk.

Addison looked around like she was disoriented until Max pointed to the left. “This way,” he said.

“Wow, how do you know your way around so well?” Addison asked in the you-are-so-big-and-strong voice she used when flirting with boys or getting pulled over for speeding by policemen.

“My dad is a professor here,” Max said.

“Your dad is a professor at Georgia Tech?” Addison shrieked. “You must be so smart! You must think we’re so stupid!”

I wanted to suggest that she stop tossing that we around so loosely. But the two of them had headed up the sidewalk, leaving Carter and me behind.

Then I remembered that I was pretending to be a person who actually wanted to talk to other people. “And that’s Addison Johnson,” I told Carter. “Where are y’all from?”

He named a high school just southeast of ours. They were one of our biggest rivals in academics, band, and sports, but especially football. “Oh, we play you our first game!” I burst out. “We’re going to kick your ass.”

I was kidding, of course. Both teams were great, and the outcome of the game was always a toss-up. Carter should have understood and responded with a grin and a snappy comeback.

But Max overheard me, stopped, and turned to stare at me wide-eyed in horror as Carter moaned, “Ooooooh, don’t say that where Max can hear you. He’s a kicker, and kickers are superstitious.”

Addison turned too and narrowed her eyes at me, angry that I was sabotaging her chance with Max. As my body went into fight-or-flight mode, everything seemed to intensify: the glare of the early evening sun, the heat radiating from the sidewalk, the smell of asphalt, the swish of cars down the university road, and the softer roar of cars on the interstates tangled around the skyscrapers nearby. I hated when Addison got mad at me and gave me the cold shoulder until she needed something from me. Most of the time I hadn’t meant to offend her, and there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. This time I honestly didn’t understand what was so awful about what I’d said.

I cleared my throat and timidly tried to repair the damage. “Superstitious, how?”

“Max has never missed a kick in a game,” Carter said.

“Wooowwwww,” Addison said, even though she probably didn’t even know what a record like that meant. I did, and I understood how impressive it was.

Carter shrugged. “He didn’t start last year, so he didn’t get that many chances.”

“I made the kick every chance I had,” Max defended himself.

“And when he made the first one,” Carter said, “Max decided that everything has to go exactly the same way before games, or his mojo will disappear. It’s ridiculous. He wears the same underwear every time.”

Now Max was eyeing Carter with a look that said, Shut up, Carter. I knew how Max felt.

To lighten the mood, I asked Max, “Do you wash this underwear?”

“I do,” he confirmed, but not in his jovial tone. He started walking toward the Varsity again. We all followed.

“Everything’s already breaking routine,” Carter went on. “Our first game won’t be like the games last year. He met a beautiful girl from our rival team at football camp. And then she tells him he’s going to get his ass kicked? You’ve just caused Max a lot of sleepless nights.”

“Gemma!” Addison reprimanded me, sliding her hand around Max’s forearm.

Rather than being angry with Addison for being angry with me, now both of us were mad at me. I had ruined adorable Max’s chance at a perfect season. He would probably get addicted to crack next, and it would be all my fault.

3

I hung back and let Max and Addison and Carter talk, removing myself from the conversation so I wouldn’t attempt any more tricks that I wasn’t skilled enough to handle, such as friendliness, or wit. We reached the bridge over sixteen lanes of interstate traffic. To our right was my favorite view of Atlanta, with the cars whizzing below us, grassy spaces bursting with pink flowers, and skyscrapers towering above it all, their glass panels reflecting the blue sky. I pretended to concentrate on the view—no, I wasn’t pretending, I really was concentrating on it, or trying to—because I could think of nothing to say to this Carter person I’d been saddled with.