Absolutely (Larson) Read online

  A black cloud descends on my current state of bliss. Reyna is glaring at me with pure disdain. The target on my back has expanded. Her eyes narrow as she looks away. Dang dang dang. I have inadvertently kicked the hornets’ nest.

  ***

  The week goes by torturously slow. I am counting the days until I can have my cell phone back. If my parents are feeling generous, I may get it Sunday. I’ve been effectively cut off from social media, but my friends and Brisa have been helping me out. Checking the sites, making sure I didn’t get hacked or tagged in some viral disaster. I guess one of Reyna’s dad’s school talks on bullying stuck. Must’ve been the one on cyber-bullying.

  Even though it’s been pretty clear, I don’t trust that it’ll remain that way. I’ve also only had two of those horrid pictures on my locker.

  Adding to the tension of the long week, Kiel is keeping a safe distance. But he’s there for the morning walk with his ear buds in; he’s there in the hallways; he’s there eating at his lunch table with Tómas. Always near, but never close to me in class.

  ***

  This Friday is an away game. The cheerleaders will be traveling with the football team to Wall, Texas, two hours away. Gee, I'm so excited. No, not really. Two hours in a bus with Reyna, Jackson, Jacob, and everyone else out to make my life miserable.

  My plan is to sit in the front with Mr. Lyle, the elderly bus driver, and Mrs. Lindsey, who sleeps like the dead on road trips.

  On Thursday, we make “care packs” for the team with Skor candy bars and good luck “Kisses.” Mrs. Lindsey has been present at all our practices and meetings. We get things done with no issues, except the extra bruises. Oh, and Reyna being super critical of my every move.

  “Really, Ash? Not too many Kisses in Kiel’s care pack,” she says smugly. “Wouldn’t want him getting any ideas. Not that it’d be a good idea with you…”

  Not looking forward to this trip.

  ***

  Kiel

  I’ll be the first to admit, the past week wasn’t what I expected it to be after Monday morning. I’m not exactly avoiding Ashlyn, but I am very close to stalking her. It’s the only way I can make sure the jerks stay away. I’ve gone so far as to distract Reyna into forgetting to tape up a picture before she left campus a couple of the days.

  She’s shockingly easy to distract. I’ve fed her a few lines that appease her. I may have laughed at some of the lamest jokes ever told. I know I laughed at some of her cruel jokes, to keep my enemy close, so to speak. And she was my enemy as long as she continued her assault on Ashlyn.

  I’ve also been pushing my band auditions to all the school band members who show promise (and some who don’t). Desperation also has me hitting up my teammates. One of them even says he plays for his church.

  Ashlyn and I have kept to the morning arrangement. She talks and I make her repeat herself like I didn’t hear her. But I’ve turned the music down specifically to hear her voice and the occasional private rants.

  Take Wednesday, for instance. She’s mumbling about the wisdom of the females in her family. Then she asks (twice) if I even like walnut brownies. I answer yes, because who doesn’t?

  She whips out another, but much smaller, bakery box. Ashlyn shyly hands it over and silence reigns—for like two minutes.

  “You better like those freaking walnut brownies,” she grumbles under her breath. Since I dropped a box of them last time, it stands to reason she’d give me a smaller box. Then, “My sister says you look Hispanic—or Latino, if you prefer.”

  “Hm?” and on cue, she repeats herself. I chuckle. “She’s right,” I answer, “sort of. My mom’s actually from Mexico.”

  “Oh,” she says, studying my face as she walks. What does she see there that has her so transfixed causing her to nearly trip? I reach out to steady her. I have to force myself to remove the hand from her arm.

  It’s getting harder and harder to resist her.

  ***

  Another testosterone-laden pep rally and a “Clip the Hawks’ wings” speech from Coach, and we’re getting ready to pile in the bus with all our gear and the cheerleader’s stuff.

  Ashlyn is helping everyone get the pompoms and megaphones loaded. It doesn’t take a genius to see that Reyna has managed to not lift a finger, along with several of the other girls. Without hesitation, I walk over to help out. As soon as I grab a megaphone, Ashlyn grins at me.

  Reyna, seeing me with the megaphone, struts over remembering that some of this junk is hers.

  “Kiel, sweetie, you really don’t have to do that. We got this! Ladies! What are you standing around for? This stuff isn’t loading itself.”

  Reyna’s fakeness is unattractive, but I keep helping anyway. Keeps me close to Ashlyn. As I load, I see Ashlyn’s backpack lying in the front seat across from Mr. Lyle, behind the door. I chuckle.

  “It’s not funny,” Ashlyn murmurs, setting down yet another box of pompoms. How the hell many do they need?

  “What’s not funny?” the saccharine voice of Reyna comes from behind Ashlyn, making her cringe.

  I reply, “The sheer volume of shredded plastic it takes to get the crowd going.”

  “Oh,” Reyna oozes, “It’s not the plastic in the pompoms.”

  I wonder if Reyna realizes how that just sounded. Ashlyn does. I see her covering her laughter with both hands on her face. Me? I don’t care. I burst out laughing at her vapid remark.

  Reyna has no freaking clue, apparently, as she starts laughing along with me. Probably thinking we’re laughing at Ashlyn. But Ashlyn is choking and coughing. That makes me laugh harder, leaving me gasping for breath.

  We catch our breath and see that other people are filing in now, finding their seats. Reyna shimmies by me as I step out into the aisle to find a seat. The move was completely calculated and wholly unnecessary. Kind of repulsive, too.

  She turns around after walking by and asks, “Wanna share a seat?”

  “Um, no,” I say, “I think I’ll just sit up here. In the front. You know, to concentrate on the game ahead.” Total BS. I step out of the aisle and into the seat behind Ashlyn. Miller Bradford, my center, joins me with the what’s-up chin jerk.

  Reyna huffs off to the back. Mrs. Lindsey joins us in the seat behind Mr. Lyle. It’s going to be a long two hours. Ashlyn still doesn’t have a phone or any other device. Like she’s living in the 90s, she pulls out a book. Like paper and ink, book.

  ***

  Thirty minutes into the ride, Mrs. Lindsey is snoring and Miller is slumped in the seat with a video game. I lean toward the window and peek through the little gap between seat and window. I whisper, “Hey, Ash?” She whips her head around, eyes wide, to the gap. Our faces are so close, I feel her breath on my cheek (thankfully minty; skunk breath is a deal breaker).

  “You scared the crap out of me!” she hisses.

  “Sorry. I was wondering something…” She’s usually the one asking questions. This is new ground for us.

  “Yes?” she asks, confused. I chuckle. She obviously realizes this is new, as well.

  “Why are you device-less? No phone, iPod, Kindle? I’ve seen Brisa with all three.”

  She laughs, light and breathy. “I do have a phone. And by Monday, it’ll be back in my possession.” She sighs longingly and adds, “I can barely stand the wait.”

  I nod, understanding completely. She returns my smile, with nothing fake or saccharine. I turn until my back is up against the bus wall. When I wordlessly offer her an ear bud, her smile widens. She backs up against the wall as close to me as the seat back will allow. And like that day in the rain, the music plays for both of us.

  She quietly sings along. Not in tune but prettily. I keep glancing her way, our eyes meeting each time. She’s known each song I’ve played, until “Love It All” by The Kooks begins.

  She looks surprised that she doesn’t know it. But her eyes go big once the song gets going. It’s a beautiful song and she’s beautiful to watch. I can’t resist leaning down, closi
ng the small gap, and whispering the song to her. Her lips part faintly. Our gazes are locked. I'm so close I can see the brown and gold flecks in her eyes.

  Almost as soon as the moment is on us, it’s shut down by an overly chipper voice saying, “Hey, Kiel!”

  I turn and see Marisa Yanez leaning past Miller (who now has a decent view).

  “We,” she points back to her cheer pals, “were just curious if you’re really starting a band. Do you play guitar?” She sounds tipsy.

  Another cheer chick comes over, Carsey or some equally strange Southern name. “Ooh, that’s like super sexy! I would be your groupie!” They cover their mouths to giggle childishly.

  I see Ashlyn waiting for my answer as well. We haven't shared life goals at this stage in our barely-friendship. I would’ve liked the opportunity to tell her myself in any case. “I don’t think I need any groupies. I don’t even have any members yet.”

  “So it’s true!” Marisa squeals. She yells it back to the others again. Mr. Lyle gives her the stink eye and we’re blessedly left alone.

  ***

  Ashlyn

  “A band?” I ask when the nitwit twins bounce away. We’re both still leaning back on the bus wall, so I look at him sideways.

  “Uh, yeah,” Kiel says hesitantly.

  “What kind? I mean what kind of music are you wanting to play?” I ask.

  He looks at me like he’s still not ready to talk about it with anyone. But on some level he knows a crapload more about me than I do him, whether it’s all true or not.

  So, I press him. “I bet you want to be a band like The Strokes, not mainstream like Nickelback. Or you could be…maybe…a country music fan at heart—in denial,” I smile evilly.

  Kiel’s eyes bug out like I punched him in the gut. “Hell no!”

  “Oh, come on,” I tease. “Country is not all that bad.”

  “I'll give you that, but not much more,” he concedes.

  “So The Strokes, then?” I ask.

  “I don’t really know. It’s all hypothetical as of now,” he replies.

  “Hmm, I guess that makes sense. But what if the guys you assemble are all One Direction fans and suck you into being a boy band?” I shudder.

  “Don’t even speak that into the universe, Ashlyn. Please.” He sounds so solemn, I have to laugh. He smiles at me. “Anyway, I just want it to rock, you know? Not suck. Sucking would almost be worse than being in a boy band and as bad as being like Nickelback.”

  “Yes! Don’t suck like Nickelback. I'll help you learn dance moves if I think you’re going Nickelback. Promise.”

  He chuckles. “I'll hold you to that.”

  We fall silent, not really looking at each other but not turning away either. I'm thinking of that perfect moment when he was singing those three words from the chorus: Love it all.

  It had made my heart flip, but then it was stolen from me by two words from Marisa and her inane question. I can’t get that moment back. I could’ve lived in that moment. Moved in and bought furniture in that moment. Now I feel bereft.

  Kiel has both ear buds back. According to my watch, we have an hour left. “Oh, Lord! Another stupid hour.” I groan. He turns in his seat so he’s facing forward again. I’m still leaning on the wall. He moves his torso forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. The ear buds dangle from his hands.

  I wonder if he's thinking of that moment like I am. Every cell of my being hopes he is.

  I watch him untangle the ear buds. He shrugs lightly with a barely there smile as he inserts both ear buds and leans back. What. The. Heck? Confusion sets in and I turn to face forward as well. Jacob and Reyna this summer, Jackson this past Friday, now Kiel. I can’t be sure, but Kiel’s distance stings differently. Because it hurts like rejection.

  ***

  I manage to slip in and out of sleep. Not surprising, something hits me in the head. I peek over the seat, but Kiel is sleeping and Miller is entrenched in some sort of epic battle.

  Resigned to being hazed, another wad hits me. A third hits me as I ponder the aim of the jerks in the back. That one hurt worse. I reach down and open it up. Inside, they’ve stuck gumballs. Who thinks this crap up? I mean, really?

  Over my head, I hear a smack and see a missile deflected into the aisle.

  “Seriously?” Kiel yells. I look up and he’s standing to yell at the other bus riders. “Do you want to give your QB a freaking headache before the game? Idiots! Grow up!”

  Mrs. Lindsey snores through it all. Mr. Lyle only peers at us.

  A couple of guys grumble about ruining their fun, but Kiel sits down. I turn back around facing the front. He’s at the gap though, speaking to me.

  “What the heck are they putting in the paper?”

  “Freaking gumballs.” I don’t face him as I respond, annoyed.

  “I'll be glad when we get there,” he says, letting out a deep breath.

  Without another incident, we pull into the stadium parking lot in Wall and start unloading.

  ***

  Kiel

  It’s awkward now with Ashlyn. No doubt about it. I don’t understand what I'm feeling, but I know that I need to step back and give us some space. The quiet between us has become a thick wall and I'm not talking about the foam seating. I want… Doesn’t matter, though.

  The quiet is disturbed by childish giggling from the back and I get hit in the head by a juvenile missile. Then I hear an “Ow!” from Ashlyn.

  I smack the next missile out of the way. It wasn’t just paper this time.

  I stand immediately and give them a piece of my mind. I act like I stop them for me; though, it’s really for her. I try to keep it cool. Six months ago, they’d have bruises and black eyes for messing with me and mine.

  ***

  Once we’re in the parking lot, relief fills me. The idiots in the back don’t need any more time to themselves. And I need out of Ashlyn’s airspace.

  Ashlyn ignores me, and I follow her lead. Like I said, awkward. The team and I, toting our gear, make our way to the locker room labeled “Visitor.”

  She ought to be alright now that Mrs. Lindsey has come out of her coma. “Ought to” being the operative phrase as I hear her yelp, “Ouch. Be careful!” I turn to see her nursing her arm as Marisa saunters by smugly. Ashlyn looks up to see me walking backward, glaring daggers at Marisa. The slight shake of her head brings me back to reality. I spin, trying not to think about it.

  Two people helping each other, I remember from English class. Only I'm not sure what she's helping me with…

  ***

  I am on my game tonight. The points the Hawks score are not my fault. And all my passes fly true. My receivers, however, stumble over each other like they’re drunk or hung over. I have to fake a few times to get into the end zone. Miller is on his game as well, or I’d be sitting on a stretcher.

  I chance a look over at the cheerleaders. Her squad looks bad, too. However, she’s watching me with an encouraging, yet worried, smile. At least I’ve got that. Even if I have to keep pushing her away.

  I get back to it and change up our (and I use that term loosely) strategy, trying to judge the other team’s weaknesses. Just when I'm about to give up, one of my receivers actually connects and trips it in.

  Despite that, we lose by a field goal. Maybe they were all drunk, since several are on the sidelines puking their guts out. If I find out they were drinking, they’ll be doing the most grueling drills I can devise.

  In the locker room, after the game, Miller says to me unprompted, “Look man, she’s cool. I’ve known her since I was 6. I’ve got her back in fourth period.” I want to press him on what he knows about Ashlyn. However, there were too many guys around who professed their own knowledge of her.

  The bus drives a solemn (or hung over) team and squad to a local fast food place two towns over. I stand close to Ashlyn in line in case sodas go flying or ketchup packets mysteriously splatter. Maybe I'm not menacing enough because someone already got past me with a mus
tard-covered finger across her back.

  As the line moves up, I use it as pretense to get closer to her. I place my hand protectively on the small of her back and nudge her to move up as Miller steps away from the counter. When we’re at the counter, she pats herself down. Like there’s anywhere to keep anything in that uniform. But then I recall where girls sometimes keep stuff…I clear my throat nervously when my mind goes there.

  “Dang! Dangdangdang!” she mumbles and stomps her foot.

  Chuckling, I say, “I'll float you. Just this once, got it. Don’t make it a habit.”

  “Thanks,” she says. She only asks for a small order of fries. Sure, all I've seen her eat are salads, but she eats them like a carnivore, with bacon and tons of dressing. Damn, I am stalking her. I add a cheeseburger, no onions, to my order. She doesn’t strike me as the onions type. I laugh at my assumption.

  “What?” Ashlyn asks, suspicious.

  “Nothing,” I say, smiling down at her, way down. She must come in at a full five feet tall.

  I realize as I pay that Ashlyn will have to sit with me. And I'm sitting with Miller. I take her elbow and follow Miller to a booth even though he’s kind of a loner. He only plays ball because his parents expect it. We should all get along well.

  I guide her to the opposite side of the booth from Miller and scoot in after her.

  “Miller, you know Ashlyn, right?” I ask.

  “Since Kindergarten,” Miller says noncommittally and pulls out his 3DS again. We sit in relative silence (except for the obnoxious teens on the other side of the restaurant).

  ***

  When the food is brought out to us, I slide the onion-free burger in front of her, like she ordered it herself. My drink goes between us with the extra straw I grabbed.

  She elbows me gently and says, “Thanks,” before eating every bite and taking a few sips from my cup. I push the cup closer. When she finishes eating, she says, “You killed it tonight,” and blushes.

  She looks up and right at Miller who’s watching us carefully. He makes some sort of internal decision and enters the conversation. “I gotta know if they were even sober. Wall wasn’t supposed to beat us, you know. We were the favored team going in.”