All the Little Lights
Page 31
He leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Mine sticks, too. Just have to be persistent.”
“You are that.” I was aware of my every muscle, every movement, my posture. Everything felt awkward as I removed books from my backpack and replaced them in my locker before hanging my pack on the hook. I had to stand on the balls of my feet, but I could reach. “What’s with the little red bag?”
“Oh,” he said, looking down. “It’s my camera. It’s inconspicuous.”
“Thank goodness I can keep a secret,” I said with a grin.
Elliott stared at me, amused. “You should come to the scrimmage.”
“Tonight? No,” I said, shaking my head.
“Why?”
I thought about that for a moment, too embarrassed to answer. I wouldn’t have anyone to sit with. I wouldn’t know where to sit. Was there a student section? Did it cost to get in? I was angry at myself for being such a coward. I’d faced scarier things than an uncomfortable social situation.
“Please come,” he said, watching me from under his brow.
I chewed on my lip while I mulled over why I would or wouldn’t. Elliott waited patiently, as if the bell wouldn’t ring any second.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally.
The bell rang, and Elliott barely noticed. “Yeah?”
I nodded and then pushed him gently. “You should get to class.”
He walked backward a few steps, grinning like an idiot. “You first.”
I gathered my things and shut my locker, letting my gaze linger on him for a few more seconds before turning toward my next class.
I didn’t make eye contact with Mr. Simons while I took my seat. He stopped speaking for a few seconds but chose not to single me out, and I quietly slid into my chair, relieved.
Mr. Simons was as animated as ever about physiology, but my thoughts were being pulled back and forth between going to the scrimmage like a regular high school student or going home like I knew I should. I didn’t know who’d checked in—if anyone—and lists began to form in my mind, scrolling through what I’d planned to do after school and if it could wait or not.
Laundry.
Scrubbing tubs.
Dinner.
What if I went to the scrimmage and Poppy was at the Juniper alone, or worse, what if Imogen was still there, pouting and angry when I returned for not coming home at a predictable time? Uncle Toad would inevitably make an appearance. Imogen’s arrival assured that. I closed my eyes, imagining my uncle’s temper flaring or Poppy’s father angry that I was late. The longer I thought about it, the more deflated I felt. The cons far outweighed the pros. The bell rang, startling me.
I trudged back to my locker. Before I could open it, a familiar bronze arm slid over my shoulder and yanked up on the handle. I tried not to smile, but when I looked up at Elliott, his contagious grin from before hadn’t faded.
“Have you thought about it?”
“What time does the game start?” I asked.
“Pretty much right after school.” He held out a set of keys. “If you need to run home, you can take my car. Just bring it back. I won’t have the energy to walk home.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have my license.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”
“Dad never got around to it before he . . . I never learned.”
He nodded once. “Good to know. We can get to work on that. So? Scrimmage.”
I looked down. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Mr. Mason was checking his phone, the pits of his ratty white shirt stained with sweat. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Dear God, will it ever cool off?”
“It doesn’t cool off in hell, Mr. Mason,” Minka grumbled.
The rest of the chairs filled, the bell rang, and Mr. Mason had just pushed off his desk to stand when Mrs. Mason walked in.
She immediately noticed Elliott. “I thought I requested a table for Mr. Youngblood?”
Mr. Mason blinked and then eyed Elliott. “It’s in the back.” Scotty was sitting at Elliott’s table. “All right, you two. This isn’t musical chairs. Get back to your spots.”
Elliott sighed and then struggled to free himself of the small wooden chair and attached desk while everyone chuckled—everyone but me and the Masons.
Mr. Mason looked up at his estranged wife, waiting for some sign of her satisfaction. She was caught off guard—for once it wasn’t Mr. Mason’s fault. I watched him sit a bit taller, that small victory enough to make him feel more like a man than he had in probably a long time.
“What do you need, Becca?” he said, firm.
“I . . . need Catherine.”
I sank low in my seat, already feeling twenty pairs of eyes on the back of my head.
Mr. Mason scanned the room, and his gaze landed on me—as if he didn’t know exactly where I sat—and then he jerked his head toward the door.
I nodded, gathered my supplies, and followed Mrs. Mason to the office. She sat behind her desk and clasped her hands together, still a bit shaken from losing the upper hand.
“You okay?” I asked.
She smiled, breathing a small laugh out of her nose. “I’m supposed to be asking you that.” I waited, and she conceded. “Yes, I’m okay. I guess I’m not used to being wrong, Catherine. I’m slipping.”
“Maybe you’re not perfect. Maybe that’s okay.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, a playful scowl on her face. “Who’s the counselor here?”
I smiled.
“You know what I’m going to ask,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Why don’t you just talk?”
I shrugged. “Things are better.”
She sat up. “Better?”
“Elliott.”
“Elliott?” She was clearly trying to keep the hope she was feeling a secret, and failing horribly.
I nodded, frowning as I stared at the floor. “Sort of. I’m trying not to.”
“Why? Because you prefer to keep to yourself, or because he’s pressuring you to be more than friends?”
My nose wrinkled. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just still angry.”
She bristled like my dad use to do when I’d talk about Presley. “What did he do?”
“He use to stay with his aunt during the summers. Then he had to go home. It was the day my . . . the day he . . .”
She nodded, and I was thankful she didn’t need me to say the words. “And?”
“He promised he’d come back, but he didn’t. Then he tried when he got his license, but he got caught. Now his parents are getting a divorce, and he’s here.”
“That’s quite a story. So you’re starting to realize that maybe it wasn’t his fault? He seems like a nice guy. And you said he tried to come back?”
I nodded, trying not to smile as I envisioned him sneaking out in the middle of the night and jumping in his rickety car, racing down the highway at forty-five miles an hour. “He tried . . . Mrs. Mason?”
“Yes?”
“Back when you were my age, did you go to football games?”
She smiled at the instant memories filling her mind. “Every one of them. Mr. Mason played football.”
“Did you have a job?”
“Yes, but they understood that I was a kid. You can’t get these years back, Catherine.”
I thought about her words. High school wasn’t my favorite, but I couldn’t go back and do it over.
“You are that.” I was aware of my every muscle, every movement, my posture. Everything felt awkward as I removed books from my backpack and replaced them in my locker before hanging my pack on the hook. I had to stand on the balls of my feet, but I could reach. “What’s with the little red bag?”
“Oh,” he said, looking down. “It’s my camera. It’s inconspicuous.”
“Thank goodness I can keep a secret,” I said with a grin.
Elliott stared at me, amused. “You should come to the scrimmage.”
“Tonight? No,” I said, shaking my head.
“Why?”
I thought about that for a moment, too embarrassed to answer. I wouldn’t have anyone to sit with. I wouldn’t know where to sit. Was there a student section? Did it cost to get in? I was angry at myself for being such a coward. I’d faced scarier things than an uncomfortable social situation.
“Please come,” he said, watching me from under his brow.
I chewed on my lip while I mulled over why I would or wouldn’t. Elliott waited patiently, as if the bell wouldn’t ring any second.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally.
The bell rang, and Elliott barely noticed. “Yeah?”
I nodded and then pushed him gently. “You should get to class.”
He walked backward a few steps, grinning like an idiot. “You first.”
I gathered my things and shut my locker, letting my gaze linger on him for a few more seconds before turning toward my next class.
I didn’t make eye contact with Mr. Simons while I took my seat. He stopped speaking for a few seconds but chose not to single me out, and I quietly slid into my chair, relieved.
Mr. Simons was as animated as ever about physiology, but my thoughts were being pulled back and forth between going to the scrimmage like a regular high school student or going home like I knew I should. I didn’t know who’d checked in—if anyone—and lists began to form in my mind, scrolling through what I’d planned to do after school and if it could wait or not.
Laundry.
Scrubbing tubs.
Dinner.
What if I went to the scrimmage and Poppy was at the Juniper alone, or worse, what if Imogen was still there, pouting and angry when I returned for not coming home at a predictable time? Uncle Toad would inevitably make an appearance. Imogen’s arrival assured that. I closed my eyes, imagining my uncle’s temper flaring or Poppy’s father angry that I was late. The longer I thought about it, the more deflated I felt. The cons far outweighed the pros. The bell rang, startling me.
I trudged back to my locker. Before I could open it, a familiar bronze arm slid over my shoulder and yanked up on the handle. I tried not to smile, but when I looked up at Elliott, his contagious grin from before hadn’t faded.
“Have you thought about it?”
“What time does the game start?” I asked.
“Pretty much right after school.” He held out a set of keys. “If you need to run home, you can take my car. Just bring it back. I won’t have the energy to walk home.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have my license.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”
“Dad never got around to it before he . . . I never learned.”
He nodded once. “Good to know. We can get to work on that. So? Scrimmage.”
I looked down. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Mr. Mason was checking his phone, the pits of his ratty white shirt stained with sweat. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Dear God, will it ever cool off?”
“It doesn’t cool off in hell, Mr. Mason,” Minka grumbled.
The rest of the chairs filled, the bell rang, and Mr. Mason had just pushed off his desk to stand when Mrs. Mason walked in.
She immediately noticed Elliott. “I thought I requested a table for Mr. Youngblood?”
Mr. Mason blinked and then eyed Elliott. “It’s in the back.” Scotty was sitting at Elliott’s table. “All right, you two. This isn’t musical chairs. Get back to your spots.”
Elliott sighed and then struggled to free himself of the small wooden chair and attached desk while everyone chuckled—everyone but me and the Masons.
Mr. Mason looked up at his estranged wife, waiting for some sign of her satisfaction. She was caught off guard—for once it wasn’t Mr. Mason’s fault. I watched him sit a bit taller, that small victory enough to make him feel more like a man than he had in probably a long time.
“What do you need, Becca?” he said, firm.
“I . . . need Catherine.”
I sank low in my seat, already feeling twenty pairs of eyes on the back of my head.
Mr. Mason scanned the room, and his gaze landed on me—as if he didn’t know exactly where I sat—and then he jerked his head toward the door.
I nodded, gathered my supplies, and followed Mrs. Mason to the office. She sat behind her desk and clasped her hands together, still a bit shaken from losing the upper hand.
“You okay?” I asked.
She smiled, breathing a small laugh out of her nose. “I’m supposed to be asking you that.” I waited, and she conceded. “Yes, I’m okay. I guess I’m not used to being wrong, Catherine. I’m slipping.”
“Maybe you’re not perfect. Maybe that’s okay.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, a playful scowl on her face. “Who’s the counselor here?”
I smiled.
“You know what I’m going to ask,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Why don’t you just talk?”
I shrugged. “Things are better.”
She sat up. “Better?”
“Elliott.”
“Elliott?” She was clearly trying to keep the hope she was feeling a secret, and failing horribly.
I nodded, frowning as I stared at the floor. “Sort of. I’m trying not to.”
“Why? Because you prefer to keep to yourself, or because he’s pressuring you to be more than friends?”
My nose wrinkled. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just still angry.”
She bristled like my dad use to do when I’d talk about Presley. “What did he do?”
“He use to stay with his aunt during the summers. Then he had to go home. It was the day my . . . the day he . . .”
She nodded, and I was thankful she didn’t need me to say the words. “And?”
“He promised he’d come back, but he didn’t. Then he tried when he got his license, but he got caught. Now his parents are getting a divorce, and he’s here.”
“That’s quite a story. So you’re starting to realize that maybe it wasn’t his fault? He seems like a nice guy. And you said he tried to come back?”
I nodded, trying not to smile as I envisioned him sneaking out in the middle of the night and jumping in his rickety car, racing down the highway at forty-five miles an hour. “He tried . . . Mrs. Mason?”
“Yes?”
“Back when you were my age, did you go to football games?”
She smiled at the instant memories filling her mind. “Every one of them. Mr. Mason played football.”
“Did you have a job?”
“Yes, but they understood that I was a kid. You can’t get these years back, Catherine.”
I thought about her words. High school wasn’t my favorite, but I couldn’t go back and do it over.
