Chapter Fourteen
I finish braiding a red ribbon into my hair and double-check the red-and-gray smoky eye I spent forty minutes mastering.
Despite it being my senior year, and this not being my first game, I only found one Ridgeway Ravens sweatshirt in my closet.
The sweatshirt and my hair and makeup will have to be enough school spirit for my last first Friday night football game.
Mom drops me off a block away from school because parking is a mess.
The crowd is honestly impressive; a healthy mix of students, parents, and fans of our rivals: the Spartans.
Since Kristen and Vincent are already inside, I wait at the ticket stand for Hannah.
A few minutes after she texts that she finally found parking, I spot her on the walking path.
“Oh. My. God,” I gush, slightly incredulous at the sight of Hannah completely decked out in our school colors.
From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she oozes school spirit.
Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail with red-and-black clip-in extensions mixed in.
Hannah doesn’t wear makeup, but her cheeks are smudged with lines of red, white, and black paint.
She has on a black quarter zip with the school crest in the center, which I kind of want for myself.
Her sweatpants are bright red, enough to hurt my eyes, and she has on black Vans with red laces. Correction, sparkly red laces.
“This—you look—”
“Amazing? I know,” she says with a smirk. She does a hair flip with her ponytail.
“Yes, I’ve never seen anyone with more… Raven pride than you,” I say, taking her in. Her eyes lock on mine and her head tilts slightly toward me, the way it did at Highland Park. But she remembers herself, and I catch the flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“Are you okay? Is this going to be okay?” I ask.
We still haven’t talked about the kiss, or texted about the kiss, or DMed about the kiss.
And I can’t tell if she’s pretending it didn’t happen because she thinks that’s what I want (which it isn’t), and I can’t ask her without bringing it up and drawing attention to the fact that I said we could only be friends, just to end up kissing her.
But tonight there’s a good chance any nerves she has aren’t about that.
Hannah knows I’m not out to Kristen. I reminded her when I invited her to the game.
I think it hurt her feelings to realize I didn’t even tell Kristen about what happened over the summer, like truly not telling anyone somehow makes us a little less real.
“I’m fine,” Hannah says, smiling. Her voice lacks some of its usual warmth.
We head into the stadium and I send up a tiny prayer that tonight will be worth it, that this is Hannah’s way in. Kristen will get to know her, and we will all be able to hang out more regularly moving forward.
We make our way to the bleachers, and people can’t stop looking at Hannah.
Any hope of lying low tonight is dashed.
Our classmates give her props and high fives, and a few equally decked-out parents whoop and wave when we walk by.
Kristen even spots us before I spot her and Vincent.
I don’t figure out where her shouts are coming from until she steps up onto the bleacher behind her and, through cupped hands, shouts, “Clarity, get your butt up here! The game is about to start!”
The timer on the scoreboard counts down the last few minutes before kickoff, so Hannah and I beeline toward them. Kristen hugs me and motions for Vincent to scoot down, mercifully offering Hannah and me the end of the bench.
“Hey, Vincent,” I say, lifting my hand in one of those awkward too close to really be necessary waves. Knowing how much Kristen resents Hannah, I’m hoping my efforts will earn me some much-needed brownie points.
“Sup, Clarity.” He nods at me, then at Hannah, adding, “And Clarity’s friend.”
“This is Hannah,” I say, glancing back at her. “Hannah, this is Kristen and her boyfriend, Vincent.”
“Nice to meet you guys,” Hannah says. She smiles at them, and it’s so genuine and open that I can’t help the slice of guilt that tears at my chest. I didn’t exactly tell Hannah that my best friend already doesn’t like her.
I figured tonight would be awkward enough without piling on any more pressure.
Kristen’s smile falters, but she thrusts out a hand anyway. “You’re on the festival committee, right?”
“She’s my copresident,” I remind her. They shake hands. It’s quick and firm and I’m relieved when it ends.
All conversation comes to a halt for the national anthem, and then everyone’s attention turns to the kickoff.
Vincent is leaning forward, breathing from his freaking mouth, watching the game like a zombie.
If I wasn’t navigating the complicated social politics playing out on either side of me tonight, I might have called him out on his previously mentioned lack of sports interest.
“Are you into football?” Hannah asks, leaning forward a bit so that she can look past me at Kristen.
Kristen pretends to keep her focus on the game, and I have half a mind to elbow her in the ribs. But I can’t appear to care too much, at least not enough to draw attention.
“I don’t come for the game. I come for the snacks,” she says.
“Did you want to get some? We passed the concession stand on the way over, and the popcorn smells amazing.” Hannah keeps her focus on Kristen, even though Kristen is fighting not to look at her.
I can practically see the muscles in Kristen’s eyes straining to just do the right thing and be flipping polite.
Kristen takes a breath, not a deep one, but the dramatic rise and fall of her shoulders isn’t lost on me.
Only then does she look at Hannah, slowly, as if it’s taking a lot for her to pull herself away from the game—which has barely started.
“I figure I’ll go in a minute; I’m actually waiting for someone—”
“Who?” I interrupt, a little unintentionally. “I mean, we’re all here.”
When Kristen turns her eyes to me, the way they light up is so obvious that I’m less surprised and more ashamed. Hannah tenses beside me. If she didn’t know it before, then it’s obvious now: Kristen isn’t shy. She’s being standoffish.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she coos, bopping me on the nose even though she knows I hate being bopped on the nose.
A few plays and still no touchdowns later, Vincent hops up and says he’ll be right back. I envy the way he gives Kristen a quick kiss on the lips, how second nature public affection can be to them.
“Did you invite someone?” I ask. “Chisom? Are you guys working on a photography project this semester?” Chisom is the only other student in our grade as passionate about photography as Kristen.
“I didn’t invite Chisom. Clarity, just relax.”
Kristen was so bent about me inviting Hannah in the first place, even when doing so balanced out what would’ve certainly been an awkward third-wheeling situation. Does she really dislike Hannah so much that she had to invite some secondary buffer?
“Do you want to get snacks?” I ask Hannah. I need a moment to vent and to acquire a hot dog with mustard, ketchup, relish, and—most importantly—sauerkraut, so I can eat my conflicted feelings. And, of course, a cherry cola to wash it all down.
“Sure—”
“Wait, no,” Kristen cuts in, reaching across me with her arm. “Just wait, we can get snacks in a minute.”
“Why are you being so weird?” I ask.
Her eyes quickly dart past me, and then her face melts into a smile. “Because,” she says, grinning like a cat who caught a mouse, “I want to introduce you to someone.”
Hannah and I turn to find Vincent returning to our row with a boy I’ve never seen before.
“Clarity, this is Vincent’s friend, Maurice. Maurice, this is my best friend, Clarity.”
Maurice tips down and holds out a hand for me to shake. I take his, intimidated by the way he towers over me. Even when he takes a seat between Kristen and me, he’s still a whole head taller than me.
I introduce Hannah, since Kristen clearly doesn’t intend to.
“Nice to meet you both,” Maurice says to me.
He glances at Hannah, and she smiles at him politely but in an annoyed way that only I notice, because I know her.
Then he returns his attention to me, eyes all relaxed, the color of brown tea, tight curly hair fading into a crisp shape up at his hairline, and full lips stretched into a smooth, easy smile.
Maurice is factually and objectively attractive. His skin is a deep, blemish-less brown. He’s wearing a jacket, unzipped, and exposing a dark blue shirt tight enough to showcase the rippling ridges of his abs. And his jacket sleeves are taut over what must be equally muscular arms.
“Vincent and Maurice skate together. They’re putting on that show in October,” Kristen explains. “Maurice is single. You’re single—”
“Kristen!”
“I figure, why should two supercool people like yourselves stay single?”
“Oh my God!” I thrust my fingers into my hair and hold my face in my hands, mortified. “You did not just say that out loud.”
“Clarity, it’s okay. Maurice, unlike you, has been totally on board with the whole matchmaker thing,” Kristen explains, not helping even in the slightest. She adds, I assume to Maurice since I’m still covering my face with my hands, “She’s kinda shy.”
“I think she’s just caught off guard,” Hannah chimes in.
I drop my hands immediately and look from her to Kristen… and then to Maurice, who—judging by the wide smile on his face—is eating this up.
“She is fine,” I huff to the air. “It’s nice to meet you, Maurice. I think it’s cool, what you and Vincent are doing to raise money for the skate park.”
“It was mostly Vincent’s idea, but I’m glad to help. You’re coming, right?” he asks, gently bumping his shoulder against mine.
“Yes, I am.”
“And Kristen tells me that you plan festivals,” he says, though it comes out more like a question.