Birthday(13)
The crowd loves him, I love him, and he’s the only guy on the field keeping his head in the game, but he’s young and small and the quarterback keeps pretending he isn’t even there. But then the last play of the third quarter starts, the quarterback fades, and the varsity wide receiver, a junior named something like Colby or Riley, gets hemmed in by four defenders—the Pioneers aren’t stupid and they’ve figured out our QB’s clear passing preference. It’s too late to try a run, which means the only option is a pass to Eric.
My fingers tighten on the bleachers.
The ball flies.
The field rings with the loudest silence I’ve ever heard.
Eric catches the pass as gracefully as a nurse with a newborn and takes off.
I grit my teeth and distantly become aware that I’m whispering, “Go, go, go, go!” One of the Pioneers’ safeties breaks off from the older wide receiver, charges toward him, and I yell because I’m certain Eric’s about to be flattened, but then he jukes to the side, spins, and he’s clear. To the whole stadium’s surprise but mine, Eric makes it to the end zone.
Touchdown.
The crowd roars.
This time when Jasmine stands, I’m right beside her, clapping and whooping with everyone else. Our team pulls down the conversion with a perfect kick and, as the third quarter draws to a close, we’re back in the game.
The band begins blasting out the melody from “Seven Nation Army” and the cheerleaders jump to attention. My chest tightens as my eyes fall on them. They’re lit from behind by the sunset, and they’re beautiful, of course, because looking and moving beautifully is the whole point of what they do. I’m fixated on their bodies as they move, part admiring, fascinated—and part jealous, I realize. Their tight uniforms fit their bodies perfectly and I couldn’t feel more different than them, covered up in my blue hoodie, red T-shirt, faded jeans, and Adidas sneakers stained green from mowing lawns.
Jasmine’s hand passes in front of my face. “Like what you see?” she says. She leans back, flips her hair, and rolls her eyes. “Horndog.”
I feel a shameful heat rise into my cheeks. I wish I were a horndog. I try to make myself feel turned on by the thought of all that flimsy fabric, but nothing happens in that department—which just makes me feel worse. Like something is wrong with me. I think back to our birthday a year ago, to when I almost told Eric my big secret, that I want to be a girl. But since then, I’ve done everything I can to lock those feelings deep inside of myself, and outside of blowups like this morning, I’ve been … mostly successful. The trick is to stay busy. It’s hard to believe I tried to say it out loud just last year.
“Ha, yeah. You caught me,” I say.
She winks. “Well, I’m sure they’ll all be at Elena’s party tonight.”
“There’s a party at Elena’s?”
“Yes,” she says. A twinkle appears in her eye. “A football party. And you’re coming, ’cause Elena’s my cousin so we’ve got an in and ’cause it’s your birthday. Don’t try coming up with an excuse so you can sit in your room all night listening to that freaky band.”
The band she’s talking about is Malice Mizer. They’re a Japanese goth band from the nineties I found because they dress like girls in half their videos. Not that I would tell anyone that. I swallow and nod.
“Great! We’re going!” she says in a voice innocent as birdsong.
Eric’s touchdown put the spirit back in the Oak County Wildcats and we come into the fourth quarter strong. The Pioneers screw up the punt return and our defense snatches control back at their thirty-yard line. The game continues. The Pioneers drag their feet coming on and off the field, calling a succession of time-outs, clearly trying to run down the clock while they still have a two-point advantage. It’s smart, and absolutely not against the rules, but still drives me to hiss and boo with everyone else on our side of the field.
We fight for every inch though, and Eric alone pulls two first downs out of his pocket and squeezes twenty more yards onto his already amazing performance last quarter. Still, despite our fire and renewed spirit, the Wildcats have only managed to push to the thirty yard line when the clock shows four minutes, forty-five seconds.
I know a kick is inevitable, Dad knows a kick is inevitable, and everyone on the field knows a kick is inevitable, but my hands still clench into fists when I watch the Wildcats bunch up tight at the line of scrimmage. Jasmine bounces in her seat. I let out a long breath through my nose. There’s the snap, and the ball goes to the holder.
Time moves at half speed. The Wildcats’ holder kneels and everyone holds their breath, but then I lean forward and squint—he isn’t holding the ball in position for a kick! He’s squatting with his back turned to the defense, the ball clutched to his chest. Oh, damn.
The kicker still runs forward, maintaining the illusion that they’re attempting a field goal. I look up and finally notice Eric breaking off from the left side of the line, only a single Pioneer bothering to follow him. Yes.
But … our team wouldn’t attempt a trick play with this much on the line. Not when they could easily win with a field goal. Right? Dad would never clear it. But then I glance at the sidelines and recognize a look of horror dawning on Dad’s face. The kicker mimes kicking, and the Pioneers make like confused dogs, watching where the ball is supposed to go, while the holder stands, fades, snaps, and drills the ball straight into Eric’s hands.