Chapter 8
Until this week, Bryce Mackinaw had never thought much about death beyond the vague idea that it mostly happened to old people.
The only funeral he’d ever gone to was the one for Grandpa Les.
He hadn’t really known his grandpa, so all he remembered was thinking how weird it was to have to spend an hour—an entire hour—with a dead body while strangers patted his shoulder and spewed up garbage platitudes like “he’s in a better place.
” A few people dabbed their eyes and changed it up a bit to say, “He’s with Ellen now. ”
He’d had to ask his older sister who Ellen was.
She’d rolled her eyes and informed him in that you’re so stupid tone of hers that Ellen had been Les’s wife, their grandmother.
After that he ducked out of the viewing to hide in the weedy alley by the funeral home dumpster with a couple of his older cousins and share a bottle of vodka one of them had brought.
Until they found Mr. Stephens’s car.
Even then, it was only the occasional buzz, like a fly trapped in a small room. If he tried really hard, he could ignore it. Coincidences happened, right? Mr. Stephens was a fluke.
He didn’t think twice about going to the Friday night game.
He always went to the games, because everyone went, and much like death, the idea of a social gathering not having him at the center had never occurred to him.
He didn’t even give a shit about football, really.
He spent more time looking at the cheerleaders.
The night was cold and damp, but he couldn’t feel it standing on the bleachers, deep in the pulsing heart of the crowd. The players took the field, the stadium coming alive. People stomping their feet, screaming the players’ names as the team jogged out over the bright green turf.
The cheerleaders bounced, waving their pom-poms as they led everyone in a cheer, Bryce screaming right along with them. As one, they became sound. This was what he loved—being part of something bigger than himself.
The cheer squad moved forward, prowling to the staccato clap of a beat coming from Landon and the other male cheerleader, Dustin.
At the front, Mindi Lewiston strutted, her pom-poms held behind her, lashing back and forth like a tail.
Claus the Wildcat, Meadowvale’s school mascot, came running out from somewhere, pouncing in front of the group.
Claus stood tall, arms up like he was kissing his biceps while the cheer squad flowed around him.
The mascot’s fur was the kind of orange you’d find on a Cheeto, but not really in nature.
No one was quite sure what kind of cat he was supposed to be.
He wore a red-and-black jersey that matched the football team behind him and probably stank almost as bad as their gear.
The cheer squad lined up, pom-poms out, and began to chant. Who’s that come a-prowling, come a-growling here to fight?
Bryce threw back his head to scream along with the rest of the crowd. Wildcats! Wildcats! Wildcats!
Who will send them crawling, send them bawling home tonight? At this, the cheer squad pouted and fisted their hands in front of their faces, miming tears.
Wildcats! Wildcats! Wildcats!
Who will leave them muddy, broke and bloody, feel the heat? It can only be a Wildcat, ’cause the Wildcats can’t be beat!
The crowd joined the cheerleaders for the last bit, everyone screaming now. Wildcats, Wildcats, hear us ROAR! The R dragged out, everyone stomping along the bleachers, the booming sound echoing in the stadium.
The squad brought their pom-poms together, grinning pearly white smiles at the crowd. Mindi Lewiston winked at him, and he smiled back, knowing he’d hear from her later.
The rain continued, combining with the cold night air to leach the heat from his bones.
No amount of stomping or yelling would counter that.
At halftime, some of the parents from the Booster Club handed out apple cider.
He sipped, grimacing. He was pretty sure it was the fake sugar kind his mom was always buying.
It always left a funny taste in his mouth, but at least the cider was hot.
He snagged a couple of Jackson’s french fries in an attempt to get rid of the saccharine sweetness, and downed a shot of Fireball someone had snuck in.
Normally about this time, Bryce would be feeling his best. Good friends.
The crowd. Hotties in short skirts. The Fireball in his veins making him hum along to the vibe of it all.
But not tonight. This week had been…well, it had been a real fucking downer if he was honest. Everyone was just so on edge.
People suddenly acting like they gave a shit about Mr. Stephens.
Personally, Bryce had always thought the guy was kind of a dick.
He’d been on Bryce’s case about how he’d dealt with his ex-girlfriend and how he needed to be respectful even though Bryce knew for a fact that Mr. Stephens had been banging the drama teacher while she was still married.
Yeah, Mr. Stephens made a lot of noise about good choices and doing the right thing, and yet Bryce had caught him in the backstage of the school’s theater sophomore year getting pretty hot and heavy with Mrs. Porter.
That was a dickish move in Bryce’s book. He liked Mrs. Porter and thought she deserved better. He wasn’t throwing a party at the dude’s grave or anything, but no one would catch him bawling his eyes out in the halls like everyone else this week, either.
He took a couple of the pills in his pocket. Just a little something to chill him out. No big deal.
They were just heading into the third quarter when his stomach started to roil.
Probably the nachos. Possibly the second shot of Fireball.
Whatever the cause, Bryce figured he should head to the bathroom, fast. The last thing he needed was pictures of him puking onto the back of Lara Wilcot’s head circling through the socials.
He wove his way through the bleachers, down the steps, and onto the stadium walkway.
Shadows flitted around the corners of his eyes, just out of sight.
He batted them away, jogging toward the bathrooms. Only, the ground kept rolling, like the concrete was liquid, shifting in pleasant waves.
He stopped, putting a hand against the cold wall of the building, his fingers brushing the edge of a poster.
Bryce peered at it, squinting. Everything was so bright. The rectangular poster had an oval in it with a face—light brown skin, curly hair. He knew that face, but he couldn’t remember the name. Luckily, someone had put the name underneath the picture. Number 31, Marcus Stanhope.
The poster was smiling at him.
Bryce smiled back, even though his stomach was cramping now, his breathing shallow. He sipped at the chill air, a cold sweat sheening his brow. What if he didn’t make it? The bathrooms better be open. There shouldn’t be a line, not with the third quarter starting.
You’ll be fine, Marcus said.
Yeah. Listen to Marcus. This voice was new and came from the poster next to Marcus.
Bryce turned his head slightly to see more posters.
A long line of them was hanging on the wall, the faces of the entire varsity football team staring out at him.
Bryce had a difficult time trying to read the one next to Marcus—the letters kept melting—but he didn’t need it.
He recognized Tane Pago, number 17, who played on the defensive line.
“You think I should listen to Marcus?” His words blurred around the edges, not quite melting like the poster but on their way.
Poster Tane nodded at him. Bryce gave him and Marcus a set of finger guns, something he would normally find cringey, but in this moment felt right. Tane and Marcus were helping him, and he wanted them to know that he got it. He didn’t play football, but tonight these guys were on his team.
Poster Marcus and Tane understood, giving him finger guns in return. A sense of well-being filled Bryce—he’d never felt so connected to anyone before. “We’re going to be best friends from now on. You guys are my boys.”
The posters nodded back, because of course they did.
Bryce was just trying to figure out how he might crawl inside and become a poster, too, when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Need some help?” the voice asked, and Bryce thought he might be best friends with them, too, because wasn’t this exactly what he needed? Some help?
Bryce turned, raising up a hand to block the stadium lights. It was still so bright, the person talking to him nothing more than a shadow. “Bathroom?”
“Of course,” said the voice, amused, but Bryce could barely track the conversation. “The line is a mile long, but I know where you can go.”
“You do?”
“Sure,” the voice said. Hands grabbed his shoulders, guiding him through a door.
Bryce balked, a deeply instilled notion telling him he wasn’t supposed to go in there. “Isn’t this—?”
The voice chuckled. “No one’s here right now using it, and there’s no line.”
Bryce staggered toward a stall before they’d even finished their sentence, his stomach twisting and cramping.
Cold tile met his knees as he hugged the toilet, acidic vomit burning the back of his throat as he retched.
His whole body was shaking now, shivering and sweaty.
The porcelain toilet glowed white in his vision, like something holy.
Bryce puked until he had nothing left, his body racked in painful dry heaves for several minutes.
All he could do was curl up on the floor when he was done, blessing the cool tile on his cheek, despite the reek of cleaning fluid and piss that he was pretty sure was his own.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Then he’d get back out there. Laugh it off. Tell everyone he was fine, perfect. As always.
He just wanted to sleep, but the hands wouldn’t let him.
They tugged him upright, grunting as they yanked him to his feet.
He was tugged, arranged, dressed like a baby.
He felt better now that he’d puked, and the hands were so helpful.
There was a song in his head, trying to get out, so he hummed off-key.
He opened his eyes. “Everything is so beautiful.”
“Yes,” the voice said, helping him sit. “It is. Close your eyes now.”
“Okay,” he mumbled. “Okay.” Bryce watched the color on the back of his eyelids. Starbursts of purples, greens, yellows. Rainbows of hues flared and waved. He felt the soft brush of the towel as it pressed heavily against his face.
Bryce wasn’t sure when he’d stopped breathing, only that he wasn’t, and he tried to think and make his lungs work. He raised a hand, his arm heavy, but someone pushed it down.
“Shhh,” they whispered. “Shhh.”
The light behind Bryce’s eyelids pulsed, so beautiful. But slow. Slower. Fading like a dying star.
Then the light stopped, and there was only darkness.