All the Little Lights
Page 32
“Have you been to a game?” she asked, snapping me back to reality. She knew the answer by the look on my face. “Never? Oh, you should go, Catherine. They’re so much fun. What makes you nervous about going?”
I hesitated, but Mrs. Mason’s office had always been a safe place. “I have chores at home.”
“Can they wait? Maybe if you talk to your mom about it?”
I shook my head, and she nodded in understanding. “Catherine, are you safe at home?”
“Yes. She doesn’t hit me. Never has.”
“Good. I believe you. If that changes . . .”
“It won’t.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble. I can’t advise you to do anything against your mother’s wishes. I think you should ask permission, but a night off is not unreasonable. As a minor, it’s required. Anything else?” She noticed my unease. “Come on. You know you can talk to me. Do you want me to do my top ten most embarrassing moments of high school again?”
A laugh erupted from my throat. “No. No, I won’t make you do that.”
“Okay, then. Share.”
After a few seconds, I vomited the truth. “I’ll have to sit by myself.”
“I’m going. Sit with me.”
I made a face, and she conceded. “All right. All right. I’m not the coolest, but I’m a person to sit next to. Lots of students sit with their parents.” I eyed her, and she backpedaled. “Okay. Some of them do. For a second. Just sit with me until you’re comfortable. We can get a cherry limeade on the way home, and I can drop you off.”
“That’s um . . . that’s very nice of you, but Elliott said he’d take me home. We’re practically neighbors.”
She clapped her hands together once. “Then it’s settled. First football game. Woo!”
Her reaction might have made another student roll her eyes, but I hadn’t experienced that kind of celebrating since before Dad died. I offered her an awkward smile and then glanced over my shoulder at the clock.
“Maybe I should . . . ?”
“Yes. We’ll talk again next month if that’s okay. I’m impressed with your progress, Catherine. I’m excited for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, pushing in my chair.
The bell rang, so I went straight to my locker, placing my hand on the black dial, pausing for a second to remember the combination.
“Two, forty-four, sixteen,” Elliott said behind me.
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll forget it. So? You coming?”
I sighed. “Why? Why do you want me to come so badly?”
“I just do. I want you to see us win. I want you to be there when I run off the field. I want to see you waiting by my car when I come out, my hair wet, still out of breath, high on adrenaline. I want you to be part of it.”
“Oh,” I said, overwhelmed by his admission.
“Too much?” He chuckled, amused by my reaction.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Yes, let’s hurry before I change my mind.” I put all my books away except one and stuffed it in my bag, slinging one strap over my shoulder as I turned.
Elliott was holding out his hand, waiting for me to take it.
I glanced around, searching for curious eyes.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me,” he said, still extending his hand.
I took it, and he led me down the hall, out the double doors, and across the parking lot. We put our bags in his car and continued to the football field, my hand still in his.
Chapter Twelve
Catherine
Elliott received the ball from Scotty, took a few steps back, and shot the football in a perfect spiral to Connor. Connor sailed in the air, higher than I thought a human was capable of jumping, clearing the outstretched arms of two players from the other team. He clutched the ball to his chest, falling hard to the ground.
The referees blew their whistles, lifting their hands in the air, and the crowd jumped to their feet, cheering so loudly I had to hold my hands over my ears.
Mrs. Mason grabbed my arms, bouncing up and down like a giddy high school student. “We won! They did it!”
The scoreboard read 44–45, and the Mudcats, sweaty and a little beat up, stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms around each other, swaying side to side while the band played our school song.
Mrs. Mason began singing and hooked her arm around me. The rest of the crowd was doing the same, swaying and smiling.
“Ohhh-Seeee-Ayyytch-Ehsssssss!” the crowd sang, and then everyone broke into applause.
The Mudcats broke formation and began jogging to the locker room, helmets in hand—all but Elliott. He was looking for someone in the stands. His teammates were encouraging him to follow them off the field, but he ignored them.
“Is he looking for you?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“Catherine!” Elliott yelled.
I stepped out into the stairway from the bleacher I was sitting on.
“Catherine Calhoun!” Elliott yelled again, this time holding his free hand against the side of his mouth.
Some people in line for the exit stairs looked up, the cheerleaders turned, and then the students in a narrow line between Elliott and me stopped cheering and chatting to look up.
I ran down the steps, waving at him until he saw me. Coach Peckham touched Elliott’s arm and tugged, but Elliott kept his feet stationary, not moving until he recognized me in the crowd and waved back.
I imagined those behind me were wondering what Elliott saw in me that they didn’t. But in the moment that Elliott’s gaze met mine, none of that mattered. We might as well have been sitting on the edge of Deep Creek, picking at the ground and pretending we weren’t desperate to hold hands instead of grass. And in that moment, the pain and anger I’d held on to instead disappeared.
Elliott jogged off the field with his coach, who patted him on the backside once before they disappeared around the corner.
The crowd was dispersing, filing down the stairways and pushing past me.
Mrs. Mason finally made her way to me and hooked her arm around mine. “What a great game. Worth taking a night off. Elliott’s taking you home?” I nodded. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m supposed to wait by his car. My backpack’s in there, so . . .”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She stopped abruptly, letting me pass her so she could turn left toward the side street that ran along the stadium. Coach Peckham met her at the corner, and they continued on together.
I raised an eyebrow and then began navigating the maze of cars between the stadium entrance and Elliott’s car. I reached his Chrysler and leaned my backside against the rusting metal just above his front driver’s-side tire.
My classmates returned to their cars, animated about the game and the inevitable party that would follow. The girls pretended they weren’t impressed with the boys’ ridiculous antics to get their attention. I swallowed when I saw Presley’s white Mini Cooper two cars away and then heard her shrill laughter.
She paused, Anna Sue, Brie, Tara, and Tatum just behind her.
“Oh my God,” she said, her hand to her chest. “Are you waiting for Elliott? Is he, like, your boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, embarrassed a second time by the trembling in my voice. I hated the way the slightest confrontation affected me.
I hesitated, but Mrs. Mason’s office had always been a safe place. “I have chores at home.”
“Can they wait? Maybe if you talk to your mom about it?”
I shook my head, and she nodded in understanding. “Catherine, are you safe at home?”
“Yes. She doesn’t hit me. Never has.”
“Good. I believe you. If that changes . . .”
“It won’t.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble. I can’t advise you to do anything against your mother’s wishes. I think you should ask permission, but a night off is not unreasonable. As a minor, it’s required. Anything else?” She noticed my unease. “Come on. You know you can talk to me. Do you want me to do my top ten most embarrassing moments of high school again?”
A laugh erupted from my throat. “No. No, I won’t make you do that.”
“Okay, then. Share.”
After a few seconds, I vomited the truth. “I’ll have to sit by myself.”
“I’m going. Sit with me.”
I made a face, and she conceded. “All right. All right. I’m not the coolest, but I’m a person to sit next to. Lots of students sit with their parents.” I eyed her, and she backpedaled. “Okay. Some of them do. For a second. Just sit with me until you’re comfortable. We can get a cherry limeade on the way home, and I can drop you off.”
“That’s um . . . that’s very nice of you, but Elliott said he’d take me home. We’re practically neighbors.”
She clapped her hands together once. “Then it’s settled. First football game. Woo!”
Her reaction might have made another student roll her eyes, but I hadn’t experienced that kind of celebrating since before Dad died. I offered her an awkward smile and then glanced over my shoulder at the clock.
“Maybe I should . . . ?”
“Yes. We’ll talk again next month if that’s okay. I’m impressed with your progress, Catherine. I’m excited for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, pushing in my chair.
The bell rang, so I went straight to my locker, placing my hand on the black dial, pausing for a second to remember the combination.
“Two, forty-four, sixteen,” Elliott said behind me.
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll forget it. So? You coming?”
I sighed. “Why? Why do you want me to come so badly?”
“I just do. I want you to see us win. I want you to be there when I run off the field. I want to see you waiting by my car when I come out, my hair wet, still out of breath, high on adrenaline. I want you to be part of it.”
“Oh,” I said, overwhelmed by his admission.
“Too much?” He chuckled, amused by my reaction.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Yes, let’s hurry before I change my mind.” I put all my books away except one and stuffed it in my bag, slinging one strap over my shoulder as I turned.
Elliott was holding out his hand, waiting for me to take it.
I glanced around, searching for curious eyes.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me,” he said, still extending his hand.
I took it, and he led me down the hall, out the double doors, and across the parking lot. We put our bags in his car and continued to the football field, my hand still in his.
Chapter Twelve
Catherine
Elliott received the ball from Scotty, took a few steps back, and shot the football in a perfect spiral to Connor. Connor sailed in the air, higher than I thought a human was capable of jumping, clearing the outstretched arms of two players from the other team. He clutched the ball to his chest, falling hard to the ground.
The referees blew their whistles, lifting their hands in the air, and the crowd jumped to their feet, cheering so loudly I had to hold my hands over my ears.
Mrs. Mason grabbed my arms, bouncing up and down like a giddy high school student. “We won! They did it!”
The scoreboard read 44–45, and the Mudcats, sweaty and a little beat up, stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms around each other, swaying side to side while the band played our school song.
Mrs. Mason began singing and hooked her arm around me. The rest of the crowd was doing the same, swaying and smiling.
“Ohhh-Seeee-Ayyytch-Ehsssssss!” the crowd sang, and then everyone broke into applause.
The Mudcats broke formation and began jogging to the locker room, helmets in hand—all but Elliott. He was looking for someone in the stands. His teammates were encouraging him to follow them off the field, but he ignored them.
“Is he looking for you?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“Catherine!” Elliott yelled.
I stepped out into the stairway from the bleacher I was sitting on.
“Catherine Calhoun!” Elliott yelled again, this time holding his free hand against the side of his mouth.
Some people in line for the exit stairs looked up, the cheerleaders turned, and then the students in a narrow line between Elliott and me stopped cheering and chatting to look up.
I ran down the steps, waving at him until he saw me. Coach Peckham touched Elliott’s arm and tugged, but Elliott kept his feet stationary, not moving until he recognized me in the crowd and waved back.
I imagined those behind me were wondering what Elliott saw in me that they didn’t. But in the moment that Elliott’s gaze met mine, none of that mattered. We might as well have been sitting on the edge of Deep Creek, picking at the ground and pretending we weren’t desperate to hold hands instead of grass. And in that moment, the pain and anger I’d held on to instead disappeared.
Elliott jogged off the field with his coach, who patted him on the backside once before they disappeared around the corner.
The crowd was dispersing, filing down the stairways and pushing past me.
Mrs. Mason finally made her way to me and hooked her arm around mine. “What a great game. Worth taking a night off. Elliott’s taking you home?” I nodded. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m supposed to wait by his car. My backpack’s in there, so . . .”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She stopped abruptly, letting me pass her so she could turn left toward the side street that ran along the stadium. Coach Peckham met her at the corner, and they continued on together.
I raised an eyebrow and then began navigating the maze of cars between the stadium entrance and Elliott’s car. I reached his Chrysler and leaned my backside against the rusting metal just above his front driver’s-side tire.
My classmates returned to their cars, animated about the game and the inevitable party that would follow. The girls pretended they weren’t impressed with the boys’ ridiculous antics to get their attention. I swallowed when I saw Presley’s white Mini Cooper two cars away and then heard her shrill laughter.
She paused, Anna Sue, Brie, Tara, and Tatum just behind her.
“Oh my God,” she said, her hand to her chest. “Are you waiting for Elliott? Is he, like, your boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, embarrassed a second time by the trembling in my voice. I hated the way the slightest confrontation affected me.
