“I got what I needed from you.” I wiggle free of his touch, yawning. “If you’re here to clean the lockers, the mops are in the maintenance room across the field.”
The walk to Principal Prichard’s office is silent and long. When we reach his door, he tells me to forget about making it to cheer practice today.
“Esme can cover for you. She’s quite clever when it comes to getting what she wants. Besides, we have some business to attend to.”
He locks the door. My heart races.
A click never sounded so final in my life.
You
Make me
Want to grow
Even though you act so small
I want to put you in my pocket and save you from yourself
“Yo, Penn, heard your balls are softer than Tom Brady’s. Maybe you could use them as stress relievers.”
Some tool from All Saints High burps behind me, crushing an empty bottle of Gatorade in his fist and throwing it in my team’s direction. We’re standing in the tunnel leading to their football field because All Saints High has a fucking tunnel like it’s the NFL. Their entire facility is top-notch and cost the parents a pretty penny. Yet the locker rooms for our use, the guest team, are closed due to flooding (read: Gus being his usual dickhead self). So we’re in one tunnel. Together.
An All Saints player faints like a bitch—they mumble it’s too hot in here, but I bet his lady corset is probably too fucking tight—and both our coaches hurry to get him to an ambulance and find a replacement.
It’s the first game of the season, and it’s a fucking shitshow before we even get on the field.
We haven’t lost to All Saints High in five years. Let that shit sink in for a second.
Five. Fucking. Years.
Coach Higgins talked to the local news yesterday. He said if we concentrate, we have this in the bag. To our faces, though, Coach is anything but optimistic. He gives us less credit than he’d give a bunch of fainting goats in football uniforms. Which is total bullshit, seeing as we’re number one in the state (ASH is number two—commence eye roll).
Coach also says I should keep my head cold and my legs warm and not vice versa. He knows ASH has mastered the form of trash talking, but other than Knight, their sophomore quarterback, their defense is nonexistent, and their plays are pretty predictable. Coming to Gus to mend shit wasn’t my plan, but I did it because Higgins suggested we put an end to the rivalry off the field. Only I didn’t count on Gus bringing Skull Eyes with him.
I haven’t spoken to her since the kiss in the locker room yesterday.
We passed each other in the hallway, avoided eye contact at dinner, and then ignored each other while doing homework at the kitchen table, where Bailey broke a record of talking about absolutely nothing for two hours straight.
But Daria stood up for me against Prichard—something no one else has ever done—and at this point, I know she talks shit to cover her good deeds, so I was unfazed by her excuse for why it happened. She’s a little pathetic, though, what with the way she thinks I have a girlfriend and still lets me have my way with her. Then again, rich, spoiled girls are self-indulgent. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of that?
I watch Daria on the field, doing her number with the cheer squad. Her little blue and black outfit barely covers her tits and crotch, and I know I’m not the only one who notices. It’s like looking at a scalloped picture, frayed at the edges. Everything blends in the background, and she stands out.
Las Juntas colors are red and white, so it’s easy to see that there’s less than zero attendance of our parents and friends on the bleachers. Todos Santos, on the other hand? Every second shop closes, hanging the same sign on the display windows: Closed: Gone to the game
(You should, too. Go, Saints!)
Most people on our side of San Diego roll onto their busy night shifts on Friday nights. Hard work, however, is a concept most Todos Santos folks seem to be allergic to.
I look up into the bleachers and spot Jaime, Mel, and Bailey. Sitting next to their neighborhood friends, they’re wearing All Saints High blue caps and burgundy shirts. The shirts are inside out so nobody knows what’s on the other side. But I do. I know because they’re my shirts. With my number—22.
“Sylvia and Penn, always come in twos.”
The All Saints version is a little less endearing. They call me Double Deuce—Twice the shit.
Last night, Mel took me aside and told me that she has people looking into Via’s whereabouts. She asked me if we have any relatives she should check with. I told her I have a father and a grandmother who have been traveling from city to city for the past decade, trying to start a crazy Christian cult, an aunt in Iowa I’ve already checked with, and a half-uncle in Ohio neither of us ever met.
The Followhills are not bad. My only issue is how they try courting my ass to a point they might blow my cover to the sky. They practically did everything to make people suspect I live with them other than flat-out tattooing the announcement on their foreheads. I mean, red shirts? For real?
Luckily, they just purchased uniforms and gear for my entire team for the season, so this could pass as them being their pretentious, charitable selves.
“What’s Scully smiling about? Reminiscing about his time with his favorite dildo?” Gus stretches behind me, and Camilo shifts from foot to foot, his shoulder brushing mine. He wants to answer. I bet they fucking want that, too.