Hey guys, thanks for all youremails about chapter 8! If any of you write on the site, does anyone have any ideason how I can get my submissions to stop formatting weird? I have triedsubmitting them as plain text files, but that made them have question markswhere every apostrophe was, and when Ijust copied and pasted into an email,there were spacing issues. I spend a lotof time formatting the chapters when I am writing them, and I don't want formatting issues to interrupt the reading experience. I write everything so it flows, but something always gets messedup when it gets uploaded. Any suggestions you guys have would be very muchappreciated, or just thoughts about thestory, in general, can be sent totylersaysgo@yahoo.com
The football game was in the first half, and we are up by nine points. Juliette and Iare sitting front row watching the events of the game unfold. It has been atough game so far with Crestmont's brutal defense. We managed to score in the first quarter, but in thesecond quarter, their defense has been impenetrable. The boys are huddled in a circle on the field, and Ilook at the huddle, the number `14' is directly in my life of sight on Mitch'sback. Murmuring started in the back ofthe bleachers, and then I could hear afaint chanting coming from the back untilmore and more people began chanting,
"He's Tough! He's Mean! He's number 14!"
The entire home side was chanting for Mitch, the captain, and the quarterback. Mitch was beloved by thetown because of his abilities on the field, and businesses in downtowndisplayed his jersey number all over. Right on cue, Mitch turns around toacknowledge the crowd before getting back into formation. He gives a big waveto the bleachers until we met eyes. He stopped walking and looked directly fora few moments, expression pensive and unreadable before he puts his helmet backon and jogs back into the lineup.
There used to be a time where I could read Mitch like abook, and understand what he was thinking just from the looks on his face, butthat is no more. I didn't know him as well as I thought I did, because I neverthought he would react violently that day two years ago. A small pangof hurt begins in my chest, but I quickly dismiss it and focus back on thegame.
"Do you think they like hittingeach other or groping each other more," Juliette says, looking over at me, drawing my attention away from the game.
"The groping, definitely.One hundred percent," I say laughing.
"That sounds about right. Which number is Andrew again?" Sheasks.
"28," I say pointing to him in the line-up.
"Ok, that's what I thought. Hehas been staring up here at one of us each time theycall a time out. Now, I am no math prodigy, but I can definitely say the chances he is looking for me are slim to none," she says, an imploring look on her face as sheplayfully nudges me.
"He's probably just trying to see if I am really here. I ran into him in the hallwayearlier today and told him I would be there," I say.
"Interesting," she says, drawing out the last syllable ofthe word.
"What?" I ask.
"Oh, nothing," she says, smiling impishly.
"I'm scared," I say, lookingat her hesitantly. She barks out a laugh,
"Ha! Good. May the patriarchy always be fearful." She says boisterously.
I rolled my eyes and turnedback to the game. It was the last play before half-time, and we have control ofthe ball. I watch the play unfold in front of me; the ball is snapped to Mitch,and he backs into the pocket looking for his receiver, Cody. I see Mitchhesitate for a split second when Cody is not in position due to a mac truck-sizeddefensive end. I see him scan the field, and I immediately know what he's goingto do.
"He's going to run," I saysoftly.
Juliette looks over at me fora brief second, and before she could even respond, the crowd starts yelling andchanting. Mitch had started running down the field toward the end zone. Heeasily handles the defensive tackle by doing a spin around one of the playersand shooting off toward the end zone. I hold my breath as he approaches thedefensive end. I see one of the opposing teams defensive ends charging at Mitchfrom the side at a break-neck speed, I shut my eyes waiting to hear the unmistakeablegasp of the crowd when a player gets hit and injured, but it never comes.Instead, there is more intense cheering. I open my eyes to see the opposingdefensive end flat on the ground with a massive form on top of him, the number28 emblazoned on the back of the jersey.
Andrew had protected Mitch,and Mitch had made it to the last line of defense of the opposing team. Theother team's safety started to charge at Mitch to block him from the end zone.The safety came at him from the right corner of the field while Mitch wasrunning up the center. Just before the moment of impact, Mitch stops suddenlyand the safety misses the tackle, and falls to the ground, and Mitch takes offagain, turf flying up behind him as he runs. The buzzer sounds and thescoreboard lights up indicating we had scored another touchdown beforehalftime.
I finally let out a breath,and relax my shoulders, not realizing how much I had tensed up during thatplay.
"I need a Xanax," Juliettesays, rubbing at her temples. As much as she loves to give her brother a hardtime, she secretly worries about him getting injured when he is on the field.She is always going on about football players and second impact syndrome.
"Yeah no kidding," I say, breathingout heavily.
The players jog off the fieldand head into the locker room as the band takes the field for the halftimeshow. I cringe as I hear the flat beginning notes of Black Sabbath's `Ironman.'God, the band, desperately needed a new song repertoire, but the crowd didn'tseem to share my sentiments, they were happily singing along.
Juliette and I sit through a30 minute set of the 1980's glam bands greatest hits before the second halfcommenced. When I saw the guys running back on to the field, I sighed withrelief from being spared from another slightly off-key rendition of one ofACDC's greatest hits. I see the number `28' running up the sidelines closest tothe bleachers where we are sitting on the home side. Andrew slides his helmetoff; hair damp with sweat hanging just above his eyes, very different from hisnormal clean-cut quaff. It looked kind of good on him. He walks up to theconcrete base of the bleachers about 10 feet below us, and greets Juliettebefore turning to me,
"Well look who decided toshow up," He says, grinning.
"A promise is a promise," Isay, shrugging.
He grins and runs his handthrough his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, the motion causing sweatdroplets to run down the side of his handsome face and neck. I glancedistractedly watching a droplet roll down his neck and into his uniform untilAndrew's voice brings me back around,
"What are you doing after thegame?" He asks.
Before I could answer, thewhistle blows signaling the second half is about to start and that the boysneeded to get into position on the field.
"Shit, uh, come to the fieldwhen the game is over, and I'll find you," he says, walking backward slippinghis helmet on before turning around to jog out into the formation. I amsettling back into my seat beside Juliette when I look up and see Mitchstanding on the opposite side of the huddle on the field staring right at me.After a moment, he jerks his head away and slides his helmet on and bends downto receive the snap.
The game plays on, and theirdefense is brutal. We could not gain any yardage, and Mitch was noticeablydistracted. He threw an interception and missed a pass by several feet.Luckily, our defensive line was also not to be taken lightly, and while we werealready up, we prevented them from scoring, ultimately leading to a victory forour team. The crowd cheers when the buzzer sounds signaling the end of the gameand the final scores plastered on the board indicating the home team won. Thecrowd rushes the field, friends and family searching for their players tocongratulate them on the big victory.
Juliette and I head down tothe field, her to find Mitch, and me to find Andrew. We are walking side byside, chatting idly about the game when we reached the field and heard ournames being called. We turn to see Mr. and Mrs. Spake standing about 50 feetaway, waving us over to where they stand. We walk over to them, and I exchangegreetings with both of them.
"Honey, it has been too long!Where have you been?!" Mrs. Spake says in that mothering way that she justexudes. I glance nervously at Juliette, unsure of what to say.
"Now, don't you even feed mesome line about you and my Mitchell. I have always considered you one of myown, no matter what that hard-headed son of mine has to say about it. I best beseeing you now, you hear?" She says, her southern draw making me laugh.
"Yes, ma'am," I say laughing.
I walk away from the Spakesin search of Andrew and meander toward the end of the field closer to thelocker rooms to get a better vantage point. It doesn't take me long from besidethe goal post to spot the large number 28 walking through the crowd of people.I head into the direction Andrew is walking, and it doesn't take me long toreach him as he gets stopped every few seconds by someone to congratulate himon the win. I wait for him a few paces back as he finishes talking to Mr. Roy,the owner of the town hardware store. When he turns to walk away, I slide instep beside him and casually start a conversation,
"So you weren't completelyawful out there tonight," I say, looking up at him as he turns quickly to faceme just now realizing I am beside him.
"Fuck, I thought that guy wasgoing to nail Mitch. I'm glad I was able to get out of that nasty defense oftheirs to save his ass," he says while brushing his hair off his forehead.
"Maybe you should have lethim," I say, somewhat petulantly. The intent to be humorous, but the deliveryfalling very short. He gives me a side glance as we continue walking toward thelocker rooms where most of the team was retreating for their post-game showers,
"Now why would I do that," heasks with a knowing smile. I roll my eyes, desperate for a subject change. I amrewarded when Andrew beats me to it.
"There is an after game bonfireat Chris' house; you want to go?" He asks as we stop in front of the lockerroom doors.
"Um, I don't think so, butthanks for the invite," I reply.
He sighs and nods his head ina nonverbal gesture to show that he understands. I don't think I could go to anevent where Mitch would be parading around basking in the glory of his victory.Before I could tell Andrew as much, the locker room door opens, and when I turnto see who is coming out I am greeted to the sight of Mitch walking out in histypical post-game get-up; black under armor basketball shorts with his blackrunning Nikes and a light blue pull-over hoody with the school's mascot on thefront, and the number 14 adorned on the back in dark navy.
He is distracted when hewalks out, granola bar in his mouth and looking down at his duffle bag while hefumbles with the zipper trying to zip it up. His obliviousness almost causedhim to walk right into Andrew and me. When he looked up and saw Andrew and mestanding there, he stopped walking and stared at both of us. We all stood insilence for what felt like hours, but was only a few seconds before he slowlyreaches up to his mouth to remove the granola bar still half in the wrapper fromhis mouth before speaking,
"What's going on here," Heasks, looking slowly between Andrew and me.
"I was just inviting James tothe bonfire at Chris' place," Andrew says as if the wasn't the most awkwardsituation we've collectively ever been part of. Before Mitch could reply I cutin stating,
"But I'm not going, don't worry.Great game Andrew, I'll see you at school Monday," I say turning to walktowards the parking lot and away from this awkward situation. As I am walkingto my car, a loud crack resonates as thunder rolls and rain begin to fall.
By the time I make it to mycar, the rain is falling hard, and I am soaked. I jump into my SUV and drivetowards home. The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see 10 feet in frontof me as I drive; when I arrive home, I pull the car up further in the circulardriveway than I normally would to be closer to the front door in a pointlesseffort to keep from further getting wet. Jumping out of the SUV, I run the fewsteps from the car to the front door and fumble on my keychain for the key tothe front door. When I finally manage to get it open and step inside, myclothes are soaked. Not wanting to incur the wrath of my mother, I strip downto my boxer briefs and take the wet clothes to the laundry room to throw themin the wash. I start the wash and run upstairs to jump in the shower before Isettled in on the couch for an all-night `Friends' marathon. I turn on thewater and let it run for a minute, and I strip out of my wet boxer briefs andtoss them in the hamper as if I were shooting a lay-up. I miss the shot andquietly mumble to myself,
`and that's why I stick tomusic.'
I do a water temperature testwith my toe to see if it is warm enough and step in. I let the warm waterensconce me and stand there for a few minutes, enjoying the warm water. Ilather up the soap and immediately start my world tour concert as I lather upmy body. After several enthusiastic performances of summer 2006's greatesthits, I turn off the water and start toweling off. I walk the short distance tomy room to get my favorite pair of merlot colored gym shorts and slide them on.I open the drawer above and start looking for my favorite sleep shirt. I findit midway in the stack of folded shirts in the drawer and pull it out.Unfolding it, I am greeted to the sight of the Northwood Middle's mascot. The jerseywas Mitch's 8th-grade lacrosse jersey; It was a worn silky whitewith an eagle in flight on the left upper side. On the back were the words`SPAKE' and the number 14 in black.
Afterwe finished 8th grade, Mitch and I spent most of the summer togetherbefore starting high school, as we did every year before that. I still rememberhow I came to have the jersey;
Mitch had just gotten out ofthe shower and had just made it to the doorframe of my room when I looked upand saw he had both arms above his head and the shirt was stuck on his head.
"Help!" He said, with mockurgency; bumping into the wall andmaking a pitiful sound.
I laugh, sitting down myX-box controller to help him. When I make it over to his flailing form, I reachup and start tugging at the shirt to get it back over his head.
"I told you to stop eatingsix times a day, or this was going to happen," I say, feigning seriousness.
"I am a growing boy, I needmy food," He says pouting.
It was true, by some medicalmystery he had grown almost half a foot from the beginning of the year untilnow. He had also put on about 30 pounds, most of it muscle from training withhis dad. We get the shirt off, and he is standing in front of me, with a baretorso and messy hair from the struggle with the jersey. He hands it to mesaying,
"Here. It apparently is notmy size anymore. It will definitely fit your scrawny ass," He says, smiling andwalking to his duffle bag to get another shirt.
"This thing will swallow mewhole," I say holding it up against my chest.
I continue, "I wearnormal-sized human clothes."
He turns back and raises aneyebrow,
"What are you trying to say,"he says, drawing out the last syllable of `say.'
"That you're a..large.. person," I say, emphasizing theword large.
"James, are you calling mefat?" He asks; his eyebrow now almost in his hairline.
"I mean.. you said it, notme," I reply.
"Why you little-" He saysbefore he starts running after me.
It takes me a second torealize he is chasing me, so I take off out of my room and down the stairs tothe back door to run outside to make an easy escape, Mitch hot on my heels. Itake a left at the bottom of the stairs and dart into the kitchen and standbehind my mother just as Mitch rounds the corner.
He stops seeing me behind mymom,
"She can't save you, justgive up now and surrender to your inevitable titty twister," He says, makinghis best impression of a cheesy Hollywood superhero voice.
I grab my mom and pull herout in between us,
"Let me go our the lady getsit," I say, in an equally cheesy villain voice.
"Boys, if you don't take thisoutside, you're both getting a titty twister," my mom says laughing.
He makes a fake lunge, and Igently shove my mom in his path to give me enough time to make it to thebackdoor. I fling it open and run down towards the bottom of the yard where theconcrete for the pool starts. There isn't anywhere left to go since the yard isfenced in, so I turn to face him. He is walking towards me, chest puffed upcomically like in the cartoons, and says,
"There's nowhere for you torun now, surrender and I'll consider taking it easy on you," He says stillmaintaining the cheesy voice.
"You'll never take me alive,"I say, trying to remain serious, but failing miserably.
"So be it," He says.
He takes off from a standingposition and rapidly closed the distance between us before I even have a chanceto register what is transpiring. He may be a big brute, but he moves likelightning. His hands encircle around my waist just as I turned to try to getaway, and he snatches me up off the ground and into his chest in a bear hugfashion as I try to squirm to get away from him. He starts walking towards thepool while still maintaining his superhero voice,
"Your time is up; you mustpay for your crimes. Any last words?" He asks as he reaches the side of thepool.
"I'm sorry!" I exclaim whilelaughing.
"I won't do it again, I'veseen the error of my ways!" I say in a pleading fashion.
"Give me your word!" Hedemands
"I swear!" I exclaim
He sets me back on the groundand begins to release his arms from around me, and just as he does, I turn andwrap my arms around him tightly, stunning him briefly to give me time tostrike.
"Nevertrust a criminal," I say smirking just as he registers what I was about to do Ijerk backward with all of my strength to get him off balance and use his sizeagainst him causing us both to fall into the pool.
I smile down at the jersey inmy hands as I replay the memory in my mind. A knocking on my front door bringsme out of my thoughts, and I slide the jersey on and walk down the short hallfrom my room to the stairs.
The knock comes again, but alittle louder this time.
"I'm coming; I'm coming," Isay as I cross the living room and head into the foyer to open the front door.
I open the thick wooden door,and I am faced with Mitch standing there, completely soaked and dripping wateron the front porch looking a little uneasy.
"Hey," he says nervously.
"Can we talk?"
I inhale deeply and sighbefore saying, "Sure."
The rain has flattened hisnormally spiked up in the front hair to his forehead, and with it being earlyfall, it's a little colder at night, so his face has some pink on the tip ofhis nose. His hoodie is soaked and clings to his broad chest, and water dripsfrom his basketball shorts.
"Come in and get out of therain," I say opening the door a little wider allowing him to pass through.
He walks through a few paces,and I shut the door behind him. He stands in the foyer, looking nervous andunsure of what to do in a place he used to consider his second home.
"I um-, I don't think myclothes will fit you, but uh-, my dads might. Let me just-" I say, pointingtoward the direction of my parent's bedroom before leaving the foyer withoutfinishing my sentence.
`fuck fuck fuck. What is hedoing here,' I think to myself as I rummage through my dad's dresser for a pairof his athletic shorts. I find a pair of plain navy Nike shorts, and I sit onthe bed trying to collect myself before returning to the foyer. After a fewmoments, I stand up and open the top drawer and grab a white tanktop that mydad uses as undershirts before heading back out to the foyer.
"The shorts should fit, but thetank might be a little tight, sorry," I say, handing him the clothes.
"Its no problem, thank you,"he says as she reaches for the bottom of his hoodie and begins to pull it overhis head. I stare at his bare chest briefly as he has a difficult time gettingthe wet hoodie over his head. I catch myself staring and look away, deciding itwould be best if I just turned around so he wouldn't feel as if I were creepingon him as he changed.
"What are you doing hereMitch," I say to the wall as I hear his shoes slide off and fall a shortdistance and hit marble tile of the foyer and shortly after the unmistakablesound of wet clinging fabric being pulled down skin as he removes his wetbasketball shorts and steps into dry ones.
"You ran off so fast afterthe game, I didn't get a chance to ask you to talk," He says as I hear himslide the dry tank top on and shortly after his heavy footsteps on the tilewalking in my direction. I turn around to meet him.
"Well, I didn't really have areason to stay and talk," I say, more cold than I intended.
He sighs and closes his eyesand runs his right middle fingers over his right eyebrow a few times, somethinghe always did when he was stressed about something. He lowers his hand andopens his eyes and looks to the ground,
"I was an asshole to you anda terrible friend, and I'm sorry," He says, not meeting my eyes.
I am not sure what I wasexpecting when I opened the door a few minutes ago to find Mitch there, but itwasn't an apology, but for some reason, it made me angrier.
"If that's all you have tosay, you really should not have come," I say, crossing my arms and jutting mychin forward in an aggressive stance.
He finally looks up at me andmeets my eyes. His eyes are glassy, from the beginnings of tears, and his facepained.
"Jesus James, can you justgive me a second to explain myself," He says, frustration seeping into hisvoice.
"By all means," I say with myhand while making a broad sweeping gesture.
He takes a deep breath in hismuscular chest, straining against the fabric of the white tank top -- the lineof his pecs accentuated by the tightness of the fabric. I find myself staringagain and look away.
"I handled everything allwrong. I was just so upset because everything changed. You changed the rules tothe game, and I didn't know how to play anymore," he said before I cut in.
"I'm going to stop you rightthere," I say, holding up a hand.
"Let me make somethingperfectly clear," I say, barely containing my anger at this point.
"I am not some game that youcan play. My feelings for you were real, and you didn't even care enough aboutour friendship to even try to salvage it. I had a stupid moment of weaknessthat night and sought comfort in you, and you turned your back on me," I say,shaking with rage.
"I know I did, and I wish Ihad a good explanation, but I don't. I just panicked," he said, running a handthrough his damp hair causing it to stick up in the front.
Silence falls between us as Ilook away because I don't want him to see the tears starting to form in myeyes. After a moment, I softly ask,
"Why did you hit me?"
It took a moment before he answered.He looked down at the ground and shifted his weight before looking back up atme,
"Because I was so angry withyou," He said.
I scoff and turn to walkaway, but he grabs my arm and says,
"Please. Let me explain."
While still half turnedaround to walk away, I stare at the wall and wait for him to continue. After amoment he lets go of my arm and continues,
"I was so comfortable in ourfriendship. You were so easy to be around, funny, and genuinely had an interestin my life. You were my best friend. But no matter how hard I tried, you alwayshad a wall up around parts of you, and I never could figure it out. That nightin your bed, it all fell into place. I suddenly knew why, and I didn't havetime to process it. I was angry because I didn't understand, and I was selfish.How could you do this to our friendship? How could you do this to me? How couldyou just change everything? Over the next few weeks, I tried to tell myselfthat I was wrong and that you weren't gay. I pulled away from you because I desperatelydidn't want it to be true because I didn't want things to change between us,"he says, his voice wavering.
He looks down at the groundfor a moment before looking back up and continuing,
"That day in the cafeteriawhen you said you had to talk to me, I could see it all over your face what youwere going to say. When you said I love you, I was so mad because all of thesefeelings and fears I had were suddenly real, nothing would be the same betweenus anymore. I was so angry at you for doing it to us,"
I turn to face him, responseready to fire at his accusation that I did anything to deserve the way hehandled things that day, but he cuts me off and continues,
"But I realize that I wasselfish, and I was a terrible friend, and I didn't even consider what you weregoing through and how you felt. All I cared about was me, and I can't apologizeenough for that," He says, voice going soft before adding,
"and I know nothing I can sayor do will make up for that day in the cafeteria," he says.
I take a moment to processhis words. I finally have the answers I desperately wanted but is it too late? Doesit even matter anymore? After thinking on this a moment longer, I realize I ammissing one more piece of key information, so I ask,
"So what's changed? Why now?"
He looks back down at hisfeet for a moment before looking back up at me with an unreadable expression onhis face,
"For the last few years, Ihave felt as if something was missing. Of course, I knew it was because a hugepart of my life was no longer there, but I was too proud to do anything aboutit until the day of the pep rally. I watched you playing and realized how luckyI was to know someone who is going to light the world on fire one day, and thatI was being an idiot, so I went after you, but you walked away. After that, Iwas just so angry with myself and the situation, and instead of dealing withit, I channeled it into football. The more time passed, the feeling of angerfaded, and I began to feel that I didn't deserve your friendship,"
He paused while reaching upto run a hand through his now semi-damp hair before continuing,
"I still feel that way, but Isaw you with Andrew at the game, and it brought back all of the memories of youwaiting for me after the game and us hanging out, and I just had to try," hetrails off.
I look into his eyes for whatwould be considered an uncomfortable amount of time, but he doesn't break eyecontact. After a few more moments, I look away and take a step back, unsure ofhow close we had gotten to each other during that conversation.
"I'm not sure what to say, Iwasn't really expecting this," I say quietly.
"Yeah, I know. I figured Iwould come over and say it all while I had the courage, but I know it's a lot,so I'll just give you some space," He says, moving towards the front door.
"Mitchell, you can't go outthere, its pouring rain. Just stay here," I say, walking toward the stairs.
"Are you sure?" He asks
"Yeah, it's fine. I'll go make up the spare room upstairs; youknow where everything is. Help yourself," I say walking up the stairs.
When I reach the top of thestairs, I pause at the top trying to wrap my mind around what just transpired.Mitchell had given me all the answers I have desperately wanted for the lastfew years, but I still don't feel any better. I feel uneasy and like I'mmissing something.
I walk the short distancedown the hall to the spare bedroom that we use when an extended family membercomes to visit. I get the room ready, and when I am finished, I walk back downthe stairs and don't see Mitch. I round the corner to the living room, andstill no sign of him. I make my way across the living room to the kitchen andspot him with his back turned to me as he rummages through the fridge.
"I see nothing has changed,"I say walking into the kitchen.
He jumps at the sound of myvoice, and turns around with his hand on his heart,
"Fuck, man, you scared me,"he says.
I chuckle slightly and take aseat in one of the bar height chairs on the opposite side of the kitchencounter. I watch him as he turns back around to the fridge and grabs thecontainer of my mom's homemade salsa before turning back around and catching mewatching him. He sits the container down on the counter and looks across theisland at me,
"James, I know I just kind ofshowed up, and I don't expect things to exactly go back to normal. I know thatI have to earn your trust and prove to you that I am better person, and if youare uncomfortable, I can go. It's really not storming that bad," He says.
"No, it's fine. Besides, yourmom would kill me if I let you go out there, and you catch pneumonia," I say,trying to make things light between us.
He doesn't say anything butstares at me with an unreadable expression on his face before looking away.Just as I was about to say something to fill the silence, a bright flash fillsthe house followed by a deafening boom that rattles the dishes in the cabinet,and the room goes dark.
"Fuck."