Chapter 9
Meadowvale High’s football stadium was probably a thing of beauty for people into such things.
Lots of bleachers, lights, and a large metal overhang to keep out the rain, which was essential in their neck of the woods.
It didn’t keep them completely dry, but it helped.
You had to share the bleachers with the other team, which Rick felt was asking for a fight, but there was plenty of room.
The turf field glistened bright and shiny in the damp, the announcer was sometimes intelligible over the loudspeaker, and the concession stand was abundant.
Counting tonight, Rick had probably been to the stadium twice in his entire high school career.
“I can’t believe you dragged me here, Teeny,” Rick shouted, shivering into his hoodie. He’d layered one of his uncle’s old flannels underneath it, and a T-shirt, but Washington’s cold, damp autumn weather had a way of creeping through these things.
The metal bleachers also weren’t doing them any favors. He’d stopped being able to feel his butt about five minutes ago.
“I told you, I’ve got a plan,” Martina yelled back, trying to be heard over the band.
Most of the people they went to school with were down in a group at the front, standing the whole time and yelling along with the cheerleaders’ chants.
They’d opted to sit nearer to the band, behind some of the parents.
“I am filled with ulterior motives. Besides, look at us being social and shit.”
The look he gave her was mutinous. “I don’t want to be social. I want to be warm.”
She tipped her nose up. “I can’t believe your attitude. You can be warm later. I did all of this for you, you know. You’re so ungrateful.”
He blew into his cupped hands, chafing them. “How is this for me? I don’t like football. I’m not shelling out six bucks for crappy nachos, and I’m slowly going deaf from…” He tilted his head, trying to figure out the old song the band was belting out. “ ‘The Final Countdown.’ ”
She tilted her nose higher. “Ingrate.”
He waved an irritated hand at the crowd. “At least half of these people didn’t even know who we were until someone threatened to kill us. I’m pretty sure that if someone tried to kill us now, they’d all stand by and watch and record it on their phones.”
Martina looked at him. “You know who probably— No, fuck that, I’m not giving in to your pessimism. You know who absolutely wouldn’t stand by and watch us get murdered?” She nodded at the band. “Your girl there playing the—” She frowned. “Whatever that is. A flute?”
He followed her gaze to see Nika Page, bundled up with the band, some kind of wind instrument held up to her face.
“Oh. I have no idea what that is.” He racked his brain for the names of instruments.
Any instruments. He knew it wasn’t a sax or a trumpet.
“A…bilbo? No. Wait. That’s not right. That’s a hobbit. ”
“You’re thinking of ‘oboe,’ and no, it isn’t.
” Her tone turned sly. “I guess you’ll just have to ask her.
” She smacked her chest with both hands before throwing them out and almost hitting Rick in the face.
“Bam! Ulterior motive. We’re not here for the sports ball or the overpriced nachos.
We’re here for you. We’re here for love. ”
Rick dug his hands into his pockets. “Your matchmaking attempts are both annoying and endearing. Good job.”
Martina placed the fingertips of her gloved hand on her chest. “I try to help.”
“I also don’t think that’s the only reason you brought me here, Teeny.
You love me, but we could be playing Mario Kart right now in a warm basement.
” Specifically her basement, since Rick’s house had neither a basement nor Mario Kart.
“Coming here and freezing our asses off is a high price when it’s only benefitting me. ”
Martina hunched into her jacket. “What makes you think I have more ulterior motives? You’re so distrustful.”
“Because,” Rick drawled, his tone drier than anything else in the stadium, “you love nothing more than multitasking. So I can totally buy you bringing me here in the aid of romance while also, I don’t know, plotting some underground nacho-smuggling ring.
” He tapped her skull. “I know this brain. It’s a smart brain.
This brain has layers. It also loves nachos. ”
Martina’s eyes narrowed on him from her burrow of a jacket, making Rick think of an owl peeking up from its wings. “Fine. Eighth row. Tuba. I think? Something tuba-like, anyway. That’s the big one, if you don’t know.”
Rick counted back the rows and understood instantly. Camryn Jacobs, her cheeks rosy from the cold, had a frankly ridiculously large brass instrument wrapped around her like a boa constrictor.
They both watched the band as the song ended, neither of them taking a look at the football field even once. When the final notes died in the air, Martina sighed. “What we’re doing is sad, isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s the saddest,” he said cheerfully.
“But look at it this way—this is the most normal thing we’ve ever done.
We went to a local sports game just to watch people that we’re too afraid to talk to.
For the first time ever, we’re well-adjusted, average American teenagers. Our parents are going to be so proud.”
“You know, the more you talk, the more I think you’re being sarcastic,” Martina mused. “Like you’re saying one thing and meaning the opposite of that thing. That even in this we may not be normal at all, but odd weirdos.”
“Is that one of those words?” Rick asked. “I forget what they’re called, but they cancel each other out. Like jumbo shrimp.”
“You’re thinking of oxymorons,” Martina said, her gaze finally drifting to the game in front of them. “But what you mean is synonyms, because odd and weirdo kind of mean the same things, so using them together is redundant.”
“This is why you’re getting an A in English,” Rick said. “Your giant brain.”
Martina scoffed. “I’m getting in A in English because I read a lot and study my ass off.”
“Both could be true.” Rick had to shout this as something on the field had made everyone jump up and yell.
The announcer came over the loudspeaker, but Rick had no idea what they said.
This was partially because they were using words he didn’t know, but also because the band had started to play at the same time.
“Teeny, what does encroachment mean?”
“To creep by stealth, or advance beyond something.” She answered him in a distracted fashion, her focus mostly on Camryn.
“Don’t they want to encroach, then? That seems like something they want to do. I will never understand football.” Rick tried to somehow get deeper into his hoodie. The band shifted to another song suddenly, and the crowd yelled. “What’s happening now?”
“I think it’s halftime,” Martina shouted back.
Rick decided she was right, because suddenly a bunch of people stood and left the stands, either to go to the bathroom, get a snack, or—and this might have just been Rick projecting—leave to go anywhere that wasn’t here.
“Come on,” Martina said, elbowing him. “The Booster Club is handing out apple cider. Time to take my plan to the next level.”
“And what, pray tell, is the next level?”
“Pray tell? You sound like your grandma.”
“Joke’s on you,” Rick said as he edged his way toward the stairs. “My grandma was a biker, and I can’t repeat what she would have said because there are little kids running around.”
“Fine, you sound like my abuela.”
Rick gave a sharp nod. “Good. Your abuela kicks ass. Now stop stalling and tell me phase two.”
“That she does. And fine. My plan is to bring Nika and Camryn some cider. We’ll have an excuse to talk to them and showcase our thoughtful natures.”
“Sometimes I’m both in awe of your devious nature and grateful for it at the same time.
” Rick followed her as she threaded her way down the steps and into the area between the stadium and the concessions.
There were two lines in front of the Booster Club table, and Rick was surprised when Martina led them to the longer one.
Martina dropped her voice to a whisper. “I didn’t want to stand behind Hunter. He always bathes in cologne.”
Rick spotted Hunter in the back of the shorter line and agreed, since he could smell him from where he stood, even with a large gap between them.
He took a moment to scope out the rest of the line, hoping that he might see Nika even if it meant ruining Martina’s plan, which he didn’t, but he did catch sight of whose line they were in.
“So you picked Ms. Macnamara’s line. Bold move. ”
“Oh no, maybe we should move to the other line. She’s been looking at me funny ever since that day in the principal’s office. We could—”
But it was too late. A cluster of people in front of them suddenly left, and then they were both standing in front of a grim counselor Macnamara.
A brownish-greenish-yellowish pom-pom hat had been tucked over her straight brown hair, and Rick thought that it was probably one of the ugliest hats he’d ever seen.
Her eyes looked hollowed out, and the bruises under them seemed purple under the harsh stadium lighting.
She had the there-but-not-really-there look of someone who wished their circumstances of geography were vastly different, and Rick didn’t know if this was a normal look for her or simply that she was at a football game when she could have been at home and away from students.
Again, this might have just been him projecting.
“Heeeeey,” Martina said, her smile too big.
“Ms. Macnamara. How’s it going?” She elbowed Rick, who was frozen, eyes wide, not unlike the mouse he’d seen in a nature documentary in biology class, right before a snake snapped it up in its jaws.
Ms. Macnamara didn’t remind him of a snake, but she blinked owlishly at them, and he figured owls were as bad as snakes as far as mice were concerned.