Catching Jordan (22 page)

Even though he hasn’t been speaking to me, I automatical y look at Henry, who’s sitting in the desk right next to mine. He glances at my face, and after frowning his perpetual frown, he turns away. “Yo, Bates,” Henry shouts across the room. “You’re with me.”

Bates, who was already moving to sit with his usual partner, looks from Henry to me and back at Henry again. Shrugging, Bates says, “Sure, whatever.”

“Henry,” I say. “Come on.”

He shakes his head. “I’m working with Bates on this one.”

A bunch of other kids start looking at me and Henry, wide-eyed. The whole class is silent.

I pick up my pen and start clicking it repeatedly, hoping the noise wil distract me, because I’m about to smash something. No other footbal players are in this class. Maybe I just won’t do the project—I don’t give a shit about this class anyway.

But if I get a bad grade, the principal could make Coach bench me for a few games until I bring my grades up. And I can’t stand to miss a game— I’ve gotta prove to Alabama that I’m the best high school quarterback in the country, and that when I join their team, they should let me play.

As I put my head down on my desk, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and find Marie, Henry’s recent fling.

“Hey,” she says softly. “I need a good grade on this, and since you did great on that disco project, I was hoping we could work together?” She smiles at me.

“Um, sure.”

“Cool,” she says, sitting down next to me. “I’ve been meaning to tel you I loved your flea-flicker play the other night. You don’t see those very often.”

My mouth drops open. “You know what a flea-flicker is?”

Marie shrugs and pul s a nail file from her purse, running it across her fingernails. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

•••

After practice, I try to catch Henry before he drives off, but he leaves without saying anything. Leaning up against my truck, I pul out my cel and dial his number, but he doesn’t answer. This must be the hundredth time I’ve tried to cal him in the past two weeks.

Why oh why did I accuse him of not being open on the field? And why did I defend Ty? Why didn’t I just let Henry sleep over anyway? How do I fix this? “Sam,” I say to his voice mail, “I hope you’re feeling okay. Can we please talk? I miss you so much.”

As I’m flipping my phone shut, Carter walks up. “You okay?”

I nod. “Just worried about Henry.”

“Me too,” Carter replies as he shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other.

I’m sick of talking to my journal about this shit. “Do you think I should dump Ty? Do you think Henry would go back to normal if I did that?”

Carter focuses on his sneakers and clutches the strap on his bag. “I dunno…”

“I mean, I like Ty, but it’s not like I’m in love with him or anything.”

“Hmm…”

“And we’ve been having sex, and I worry that it’s a mista—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Carter says, waving his hands. “Too much info.”

“Oh.” I wish Carter could give me some advice, some answers. “I think I’m just gonna go over to Henry’s place.”

“Cool—good idea.”

Carter and I knock fists, and then I get in my truck and drive over to Henry’s trailer. But when I get there, his truck is gone. His mom’s station wagon is here, though, so I jump out of my truck and jog up to the front door.

Mrs. H. answers after I knock and gives me a hug, smoothing out my hair with her fingers. “He’s not here, sweetie,” she says, looking up at me.

“That’s cool. Know where he is?”

“I think he was going to lift weights and run at the gym with the personal trainer.”

“Personal trainer?”

Mrs. H. keeps playing with my hair as she says, “Yes—I’m so happy your father introduced Sam to that trainer. He’l be in such good shape for col ege and wil have a much greater shot at getting a scholarship. I’m so glad Sam has your family—I don’t know what we’d do without your father’s support.”

I smile. So Henry took Dad up on it? “Right,” I say, acting as if I know everything. His mom clearly doesn’t know about what’s happened between Henry and me. “Wel , I’l get going then. Thanks, Mrs. H.”

She pats my back. “I’l tel him you stopped by.”

I hop off the front stoop and start heading to my truck, but then whip around. “Mrs. H.? Could you also tel him that…I’m so proud of him and that I love him?”

She smiles. “Of course—but he already knows that.”

•••

Later that afternoon, when I get home, Dad stops me in the driveway.

“Let’s go over to the drive-in tonight,” he says.

“The movies?”

“Yeah.”

If I didn’t feel so awful about Alabama and Henry and every other thing going on in my life, a smile probably would’ve popped up on my face.

I love the old drive-in movie theater. In the summer, Henry, Carter, JJ, and I like to go buy a few tubs of fried chicken, and we sit in lawn chairs in front of the big screen and try to guess what the characters are saying on the screen, because we never turn the speakers on.

“I don’t wanna go to the movies, Dad.”

“Why not? You love it there.”

“I do, but not with you.”

Dad rubs his eyes. “Why won’t you ever do anything with me?”

“Let’s see. You’l get Henry a personal trainer, but the only thing you’l do for me is say that Alabama wil never let me play, as if you’re doing me a favor, and then you go along on the trip to campus so you can rub it in, and then you tel me to consider other options? You never even considered my first option.”

“That’s not wha—”

“Whatever, Dad.”

I storm off to the backyard, looking over my shoulder to make sure Dad isn’t fol owing me, and then duck into the potting shed, where I lie down on the dusty ground and use a bag of mulch as a pil ow.

Sunlight flickers through the window as I stare up at the cobwebs, looking for patterns like people do with clouds. I spot a section of web that looks like the state of Tennessee. One time Henry spotted a web that looked like a Snoopy Pez dispenser.

Several minutes later, I hear Mom speaking, so I get up and peek out the window. I wipe some dust from the glass. Mom’s standing in her garden, surrounded by tal sunflowers, talking to Dad.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says, cutting a sunflower stem, “but Jordan’s never going to let you in any part of her life until you start paying attention to what she wants.”

“I don’t want to see her get hurt. I watched one of my best friends die at thirty-eight because he’d had so many concussions…”

“I know, but footbal is what your daughter loves most right now. You can either share that with her, or you can share nothing with her. Probably for the rest of your life. Your choice.” Mom turns around and heads back inside the house carrying a bundle of flowers, leaving Dad alone.

He rubs his eyes some more, then lifts his head, and touches one of Mom’s sunflowers.

•••

Three nights later, I carry the mac and cheese to the table and take a seat, glancing at Henry’s empty chair. Ty’s at work tonight and Mike and Jake are at school, so the dining room feels lonely with just me, Mom, Dad, and Dad’s bottle of Gatorade.

I spoon some salad and macaroni onto my plate, then grab a few pieces of bread. I miss having to wrangle with the guys for food.

“So, Jordan,” Dad says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “How’s school?”

“Fine, I guess.” Lie.

“Where’s Henry been?” Mom asks.

“I dunno…he’s busy.” Lie. I bow my head and push my macaroni around on my plate.

“I’ve been thinking I should cal him,” Mom says.

I don’t respond. I sip my lemonade, which has recently lost its flavor. I don’t even enjoy my favorite drink anymore because it only reminds me of Henry. God, what doesn’t remind me of him? Even macaroni reminds me of Henry.

One time when we were about nine, we decided to open our own restaurant in the family room. We cal ed it the
Bite
and
Tackle
. I was the chef and Henry played the waiter. We draped a tablecloth over the coffee table and set it with plates, glasses, and silverware from the kitchen. Using markers and glitter and construction paper, we drew up an elaborate menu that listed our offerings: fruit punch Kool-Aid, microwaved popcorn, fish sticks, and macaroni and cheese. Our only customers were Mom and Mike, but it was a hel of a lot of fun, and Mom left Henry a twenty-dol ar tip, which we promptly spent on skee-bal at the arcade.

“Jordan—what’s going on with Henry?” Mom asks.

I shrug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad shaking his head at Mom, as if to tel her to drop it.

“So,” Dad says. I hate al these awkward attempts at conversation. “Who are you playing tomorrow? It’s Davidson County, right?”

I turn to stare at Dad. Did he just bring up a game? One of
my
games? Holy shit. I nod frantical y. “Yeah—we’re playing Davidson County. It’s homecoming.”

Mom smiles at Dad and pats his hand. Dad stares down at his plate, chewing on his salad. After swal owing, he says, “I’l be there.”

“Cool,” I reply. I take a sip of lemonade and notice I can actual y taste the sugar now.

Nothing like me—

Never direct—

Behind the scenes

Always
behind the scenes She asked what’s going on with Henry Surprising

She never intrudes

During dinner, Dad made me feel better After dinner, the emotions all rushed back Empty

Alone

Confused

Lost in the woods

I lie on my bed

Wishing I was looking up at glow-in-the-dark stars Like in Henry’s room

But my ceiling is bare

Like my heart

Tears are falling

Mom comes in

Curls up next to me

“Mom”

It comes out as a cry

“I know”

charge of homecoming?

the count? 25 days since the fight with henry
As some sort of prank, God decided that Henry should be homecoming king and Carrie Myer should be queen. It’s halftime, and I’m suffering through this horrible ceremony where they ride around the track in a scrambled-egg-colored convertible and wave at the crowd.

The marching band is playing the theme song from
Titanic
, “My Heart Wil Go On.”

“Seriously?” Carter says as he leans up against the fence surrounding the field. “Didn’t that movie come out, like, decades ago?”

“Even I could plan homecoming better than this,” I reply. “Yel ow convertibles and
Titanic
, my ass.” I toss a footbal up in the air and catch it. Taking aim at Henry, who’s stil sitting on the back of the convertible, I pretend to throw the bal at him.

“Don’t even think about it,” Carter says, laughing softly.

“I bet I can knock Henry out of the car,” I say, taking a few hops back and rotating my arm as if I’m about to launch a long bomb.

“You definitely could, but I know you don’t want to embarrass Carrie like that. Give me the bal .”

Reluctantly, I drop the bal into Carter’s outstretched palm, but I bet Henry would find it hilarious if I knocked him out of the car. The old Henry would have, anyway. “So you’re real y taking Carrie to the dance?”

Carter grins a tiny smile. “Yeah, but it’s not like a date or anything. We’re going as friends.”

I feel a smile edging on my lips, secretly hoping it ends up becoming a date. Carter deserves a nice girl.

I’m going to the dance with Ty, of course, and although he vehemently objected to “attending a suck-ass gym social,” JJ is taking Lacey. But I don’t know if Henry’s going.

Final y, after what seems like a year, Henry and Carrie climb out of the convertible and join the rest of the homecoming court. Now the marching band is playing the Whitney Houston song, “I Wil Always Love You,” and I’m feeling like I could barf at any given moment. Everyone besides Henry, even the other footbal players, is dressed up in a tux. He chose to stay in his footbal uniform. I want to laugh, I real y do, but I’m stil so pissed at him. I’m sad too.

Because Kristen is stil obsessed with Ty or something, the cheerleaders asked him to “preside over Carrie’s coronation,” meaning he gets to put the cheap-ass crown on her head. He kisses her cheek as she steadies her plastic tiara. Before he walks away, he and Henry glare at one another.

As head cheerleader, Lacey puts a stupid cheapo crown on Henry’s head. She smiles at him, but he just frowns back at her. He glances over at me for a sec, but then pul s the crown off and starts twirling it on a finger. Shaking her head, Carrie reaches over, takes the crown off his finger and puts it back on his head.

Doing everything I can to ignore the marching band’s rendition of “When a Man Loves a Woman,” I’m staring at the scoreboard, which reads 17– 0 (Hundred Oaks, of course), when Carter says, “You’re playing an amazing game, Woods.”

“Thanks—so are you.” I pause. “I’ve real y been stepping it up, you know, to show people what I’d play like in col ege.”

“Did Henry tel you that Western Kentucky and Auburn sent him letters about playing for them next year?”

I smile down at my cleats. “No, but that’s great.”

“So have any other schools cal ed you or emailed or anything?”

I take a deep breath and peek at Carter out of the corner of my eye and twirl the footbal . “Um, not real y. No.”

“What?” he says, his eyebrows raised higher than a goal post. “Think it’s ’cause everybody already knows you’re gonna take Alabama’s offer?”

I think back to when Mike was a senior, and just about every team in the whole freaking country cal ed him. Everyone from crazy-big teams like LSU and USC to not-so-impressive teams like Appalachian State in Boone, North Carolina. Even after Mike made a verbal commitment to Tennessee, letters stil flooded our mailbox and the answering machine fil ed up, like, three times a week.

“I don’t know why no one’s cal ing,” I tel Carter. “But yeah, probably ’cause of Alabama.” Lie.

It’s because I’m a girl. Just like Henry said.

Feeling tears wel ing in my eyes, I wrap my arms around my waist, clutching my red and black jersey, and lean back against the fence, soaking up sappy marching band music until Mrs. H. comes rushing up to me.