All the Little Lights
Page 37
His forehead was covered in beads of sweat, the underarms of his short-sleeved button-down wet even though it was comfortably cool.
I laid my test on his desk, and he immediately started grading it.
“Are you feeling okay, Mr. Mason? You look a little pale.”
He nodded. “Yes, thanks, Catherine. Just hungry. I’ve only had a couple of protein shakes today. Have a seat, please.”
I turned, meeting Elliott’s eyes. He was smiling at me, as he had been every time he saw me since his first football game. It was the first time he’d kissed me, the first time he’d told me he loved me, and he hadn’t missed an opportunity to do either since.
Elliott’s last few games had been out of town, but there was a home game at seven thirty against the Blackwell Maroons. Both teams were undefeated, and Elliott had been talking about it all week, as well as the scholarships he could be awarded. College, for the first time, was real to him, making his football victories mean more. A home game meant we could celebrate together, and Elliott couldn’t contain his excitement.
One by one, the other students turned in their papers. Elliott was one of the last, handing his test to Mr. Mason just as the bell rang.
I gathered my things, staying behind while Elliott did the same. We walked together to my locker, and he waited while I fought with the handle. This time, though, I opened it on my own. Elliott kissed my cheek. “Homework?”
“For once . . . no.”
“You think . . . you think you might want to go with me somewhere after the game?”
I shook my head. “I’m not comfortable at parties.”
“Not a party. It’s um . . . it’s senior night. My mom’s coming into town, and they’re cooking this big dinner after the game. All my favorites.”
“Huckleberry bread?”
“Yes.” He nodded once, seeming nervous. “And . . . I thought maybe your mom could come, too.”
I turned my head, giving him side-eye. “That’s not possible. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. But I kind of told my mom about you, and she’s really looking forward to meeting you and . . . your mom.”
I stared at him for a moment, feeling my heart thump in my chest. “You already told her she’d come, didn’t you? Elliott . . .”
“No, not that she’d come. I told her I’d ask. I also told her your mom hasn’t been feeling well.”
I closed my eyes, relieved. “Good.” I sighed. “Okay, we’ll just stick with that.”
“Catherine . . .”
“No,” I said, closing my locker.
“She might enjoy herself.”
“I said no.”
Elliott frowned, but when I began to walk down the hall to the double doors leading to the parking lot, he followed.
The rain stopped just a few steps into our trek from the door to Elliott’s Chrysler, and the clean smell of a passing storm seemed to energize the already antsy students. It’d been a few weeks since we had a home game, and everyone seemed to feel the same electricity in the air. Pep Club banners hung from the ceiling, bearing phrases like Beat Blackwell and Murder the Morons, the football players were wearing their jerseys, the cheerleaders wore their matching uniforms, and the student body was a sea of white and blue.
Elliott used the palm of his hand to wipe away the droplets on the hood of his car. I touched the cobalt blue number seven on Elliott’s white mesh jersey and looked up at him. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. I told you.”
“I know,” he said, touching his lips to my forehead.
Another wave of students burst through the double doors. Car engines were revving, horns were honking, and Scotty and Connor were spinning donuts in the far lot closest to the street.
Presley was parked four spots down from Elliott, and she passed us with a smile.
“Elliott,” she called. “Thanks for the help last night.”
Elliott frowned, waved her away, and then shoved his hands in his pockets.
It took a while for me to process her words, and I still wasn’t sure what she had meant.
Elliott didn’t wait for me to ask. “She um . . . she texted me for help on Mason’s study guide.” He opened his door, and I slid inside, anger slowly engulfing me from the inside out. Presley knowing something about Elliott that I didn’t made me feel irrationally upset, and my body was reacting in strange ways.
He sat next to me and produced his phone, showing me the back-and-forth. I barely glanced at it, not wanting to look as desperate as I felt. “Look,” he said. “I gave her the answers, and that was it.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Elliott started his car. “You know I’m not interested in her. She’s awful, Catherine.” I picked at my nails, sullen. He continued, “Never in a million years. I know she texted me just so she could thank me in front of you today.”
“I don’t care.”
He frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“What should I say?”
“That you care.”
I looked out the window as Elliott backed out of his parking spot and drove toward the exit. Coach Peckham was standing at his truck near the stadium, and Mrs. Mason was standing with him. She was tossing her hair over her shoulder, her grin almost as wide as her face.
Elliott honked his horn, and they immediately sobered, waving at him. I wondered why Mrs. Mason would so fervently leave her small-town husband and marriage behind just to fall face-first into another one. Coach Peckham was twice divorced—his second wife a former student who’d just graduated four years before—and Mrs. Mason behaved like she’d caught the town’s most eligible bachelor.
Elliott and I didn’t speak the entire way to the Juniper, and the closer we came, the more Elliott fidgeted. The windshield wipers swept the rain away, offering a calming rhythm, but Elliott ignored it, looking like he was trying to think of something to say that would make everything okay. When he pulled his car up to the curb, he shoved the gear into park.
“I didn’t mean that I didn’t care,” I said before he could speak. “I just meant that I wasn’t going to argue over Presley. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s up to.”
“We don’t have to argue. We can just talk.”
His response stunned me. My parents never just talked when they disagreed. It was always a shouting match, a war of words, crying, pleading, and opening old wounds. “Don’t you have to get to the game? This seems like a long conversation.”
He checked his watch and then cleared his throat, unhappy that we were pressed for time. “You’re right. I need to get to the locker room.”
“I just have to check in, but if I take too long, go ahead. I can walk to the game.”
Elliott frowned. “Catherine, it’s pouring. You’re not walking in the rain.”
I reached for the passenger door’s handle, but Elliott took my hand in his, staring at our intertwined fingers. “Maybe you could sit with my family during the game?”
I tried to smile, but it felt strange on my face, coming across as more of a pained expression. “You’ll be down on the field. It will be weird.”
“It won’t be weird. Aunt Leigh will want you to sit with them.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, the words sounding garbled in my mouth. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I laid my test on his desk, and he immediately started grading it.
“Are you feeling okay, Mr. Mason? You look a little pale.”
He nodded. “Yes, thanks, Catherine. Just hungry. I’ve only had a couple of protein shakes today. Have a seat, please.”
I turned, meeting Elliott’s eyes. He was smiling at me, as he had been every time he saw me since his first football game. It was the first time he’d kissed me, the first time he’d told me he loved me, and he hadn’t missed an opportunity to do either since.
Elliott’s last few games had been out of town, but there was a home game at seven thirty against the Blackwell Maroons. Both teams were undefeated, and Elliott had been talking about it all week, as well as the scholarships he could be awarded. College, for the first time, was real to him, making his football victories mean more. A home game meant we could celebrate together, and Elliott couldn’t contain his excitement.
One by one, the other students turned in their papers. Elliott was one of the last, handing his test to Mr. Mason just as the bell rang.
I gathered my things, staying behind while Elliott did the same. We walked together to my locker, and he waited while I fought with the handle. This time, though, I opened it on my own. Elliott kissed my cheek. “Homework?”
“For once . . . no.”
“You think . . . you think you might want to go with me somewhere after the game?”
I shook my head. “I’m not comfortable at parties.”
“Not a party. It’s um . . . it’s senior night. My mom’s coming into town, and they’re cooking this big dinner after the game. All my favorites.”
“Huckleberry bread?”
“Yes.” He nodded once, seeming nervous. “And . . . I thought maybe your mom could come, too.”
I turned my head, giving him side-eye. “That’s not possible. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. But I kind of told my mom about you, and she’s really looking forward to meeting you and . . . your mom.”
I stared at him for a moment, feeling my heart thump in my chest. “You already told her she’d come, didn’t you? Elliott . . .”
“No, not that she’d come. I told her I’d ask. I also told her your mom hasn’t been feeling well.”
I closed my eyes, relieved. “Good.” I sighed. “Okay, we’ll just stick with that.”
“Catherine . . .”
“No,” I said, closing my locker.
“She might enjoy herself.”
“I said no.”
Elliott frowned, but when I began to walk down the hall to the double doors leading to the parking lot, he followed.
The rain stopped just a few steps into our trek from the door to Elliott’s Chrysler, and the clean smell of a passing storm seemed to energize the already antsy students. It’d been a few weeks since we had a home game, and everyone seemed to feel the same electricity in the air. Pep Club banners hung from the ceiling, bearing phrases like Beat Blackwell and Murder the Morons, the football players were wearing their jerseys, the cheerleaders wore their matching uniforms, and the student body was a sea of white and blue.
Elliott used the palm of his hand to wipe away the droplets on the hood of his car. I touched the cobalt blue number seven on Elliott’s white mesh jersey and looked up at him. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. I told you.”
“I know,” he said, touching his lips to my forehead.
Another wave of students burst through the double doors. Car engines were revving, horns were honking, and Scotty and Connor were spinning donuts in the far lot closest to the street.
Presley was parked four spots down from Elliott, and she passed us with a smile.
“Elliott,” she called. “Thanks for the help last night.”
Elliott frowned, waved her away, and then shoved his hands in his pockets.
It took a while for me to process her words, and I still wasn’t sure what she had meant.
Elliott didn’t wait for me to ask. “She um . . . she texted me for help on Mason’s study guide.” He opened his door, and I slid inside, anger slowly engulfing me from the inside out. Presley knowing something about Elliott that I didn’t made me feel irrationally upset, and my body was reacting in strange ways.
He sat next to me and produced his phone, showing me the back-and-forth. I barely glanced at it, not wanting to look as desperate as I felt. “Look,” he said. “I gave her the answers, and that was it.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Elliott started his car. “You know I’m not interested in her. She’s awful, Catherine.” I picked at my nails, sullen. He continued, “Never in a million years. I know she texted me just so she could thank me in front of you today.”
“I don’t care.”
He frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“What should I say?”
“That you care.”
I looked out the window as Elliott backed out of his parking spot and drove toward the exit. Coach Peckham was standing at his truck near the stadium, and Mrs. Mason was standing with him. She was tossing her hair over her shoulder, her grin almost as wide as her face.
Elliott honked his horn, and they immediately sobered, waving at him. I wondered why Mrs. Mason would so fervently leave her small-town husband and marriage behind just to fall face-first into another one. Coach Peckham was twice divorced—his second wife a former student who’d just graduated four years before—and Mrs. Mason behaved like she’d caught the town’s most eligible bachelor.
Elliott and I didn’t speak the entire way to the Juniper, and the closer we came, the more Elliott fidgeted. The windshield wipers swept the rain away, offering a calming rhythm, but Elliott ignored it, looking like he was trying to think of something to say that would make everything okay. When he pulled his car up to the curb, he shoved the gear into park.
“I didn’t mean that I didn’t care,” I said before he could speak. “I just meant that I wasn’t going to argue over Presley. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s up to.”
“We don’t have to argue. We can just talk.”
His response stunned me. My parents never just talked when they disagreed. It was always a shouting match, a war of words, crying, pleading, and opening old wounds. “Don’t you have to get to the game? This seems like a long conversation.”
He checked his watch and then cleared his throat, unhappy that we were pressed for time. “You’re right. I need to get to the locker room.”
“I just have to check in, but if I take too long, go ahead. I can walk to the game.”
Elliott frowned. “Catherine, it’s pouring. You’re not walking in the rain.”
I reached for the passenger door’s handle, but Elliott took my hand in his, staring at our intertwined fingers. “Maybe you could sit with my family during the game?”
I tried to smile, but it felt strange on my face, coming across as more of a pained expression. “You’ll be down on the field. It will be weird.”
“It won’t be weird. Aunt Leigh will want you to sit with them.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, the words sounding garbled in my mouth. “I’ll just be a minute.”
