"Let's go on an escapade."

I am about to shut my locker closed, having packed the books I need for tonight when Zain's words make me falter. It's the end of the day and the hallways are crowded with students chattering loudly as they make their way around. She leans on the locker adjacent to mine with crossed arms, staring at me expectantly, her eyes wide and dancing.

"A what?"

"An escapade!" She pauses to tuck a curl behind her ear. "My brother and his friends would go on crazy adventures all around the city and only come back when it was like eight A.M. in the morning. He'd tell me all these wild stories about the things that'd happen on these adventures."

I close my locker. "And you want us to skip school and, what, go on an—"

I look to her for the word to which she replies, "An escapade."

"An escapade," I finish. The idea is not too bad. I've only skipped school one other time when Theo took me to his house, and the thrill of whatever unknown quest awaiting us makes me smile.

But the excitement dims when I recall the night at Marli's. I promised her one of our little subway rendezvous that we haven't had in a while, and my breaking that promise will only prove her assumption of me changing right.

Zain notes the rejection on my face before I speak. "We don't have to skip school; we can just go on a school night. Don't shut the idea down so soon. It'll be—"

"It's not that." I shake my head, explaining to her my excuse.

"Then just bring Marli!" she replies simply when I'm done, her smile never wavering. Zain has a fix for everything.

I'm quick to open my mouth, ready to explain, yet again, why that won't work but find myself at a loss for words. There's no reasonable, logical argument that I can give her, except for the feeble one in my mind that she can never hear.

I don't know why showing Marli this part of my life makes me queasy. Marli and I are the low side of Harlem, the cheap fries in a subway at night, the converse pair I've been wearing everyday since freshman year. Marli is better than all of them, and I would still take her over anyone in this school, but they would never understand her or us. It shamefully angers me.

Marli is not the problem; I am.

"Come on," Zain pushes, eyeing the red gem peaking through my collared shirt. "I'd love to meet her. You don't have an excuse anymore. And it'll be so much fun."

I sigh dejectedly, thinking of how I'll bring this up to Marli. "Fine. I'll talk to her."

"Great!" She bounces a little, excited. "Come on, our seats are waiting for us."

Outside, the air thrums with adrenaline and excitement, starting from the stands that we begin to climb to the middle of the field where players are warming up. It smells distinctly of salty popcorn and hot pretzels. The seats are quickly being filled with what seems like every student that attends our school, patterned with our school colors: navy blue and yellow. On the other side of the field are our opponents for the day, their school colors of red and white filling the stands.

I've never been to high school 'games', whether it be football, lacrosse, or any other sport. I've never seen the appeal to it, sitting on the bleachers to watch other people play. I like to be in the action of things, not on the sidelines.

But tonight is my father's birthday and going home is not an option. Mom is working late tonight, and Roan is sleeping over at his friend's house.

"Who are we playing against?" I ask.

We find two empty seats high enough for her liking and pick our way through the throng of excited students. I realize that the entire row is empty as if reserved for a group. When I spot Yvonne and Grove making their way to the seats from the other side of the stands, I understand who these seats are reserved for.

"East Dale," she replies, plopping on the red plastic seat, lifting her leather-booted legs to rest them on the seat in front of her. I sit next to her.

This high up, the wind wraps around us more freely, inciting chills all over my skin. Even the sun is cold behind the clouds, shining rays of pale, cool light in late November.

Further down, I spot the players in their padded uniforms running back and forth in unison to the command of their coach. He's yelling out orders, a yellow whistle clenched between his teeth. Their faces are hard to identify, and I have to strain to read the names on the back of their uniforms.

Tave is the first I recognize; broad frame, dark skin, and letters spelling out GRAY are the giveaway. I memorize his number: eight.

Next, I find LAURENT printed on the back of a black-haired guy. Idris is the only one with that last name in this school, and I make a mental note of his number as well.

Idris's arms are crossed as he stands with another guy's hands resting on his shoulders. The second guy appears to be explaining something with gesturing hands to the field. When he turns his face, I recognize the sharp side profile and distinct nose immediately—Theo. The back of his jersey showcases ROMAN and the number twelve.

As if sensing my gaze a dozen of rows away, he turns his head to meet my eyes. I don't smile; he won't see it from there. For some reason, I feel a jolt and shiver, not from the cold. We stare at each other for a while like there's no one in the stadium, the sound of whistles, chatter about score predictions, and faint laughs dull to distant, far away sounds.

Idris nudges Theo's shoulders so he breaks his gaze first. There's a loud buzz, followed by their coach's whistles, and they all start to make their way down the field, putting on their helmets with their lacrosse sticks in hand.

The players take their positions, spreading out across the field, clad in a dark blue that is easy to distinguish from the blood-red jerseys of their opponents.

Tave and a guy in red meet in the middle of the field with their sticks in hands. I know nothing of this game or its rules so I find myself confused when the the two boys crouch low on the ground, leaning on their knees with the ends of their lacrosse sticks touching. The referee blows a whistle, and they start to fight over something with their sticks.

"Are they looking for something?" I ask, only half-joking.

Zain laughs. "Oh no, that's called a face-off. A player from each team should try to get possession of the ball. That's how a lacrosse game starts."

When I hear Yvonne snicker at my ignorance, I decide that it's best to learn how this game works by simply watching.

It appears to be a sport of speed and aggression—a mix of soccer and ice hockey. Each player gains possession of the ball in the net of their sticks and runs around, passing it to their teammates to try shoot the ball in the net. Occasionally, they start slapping each other with sticks (Zain explains that it's allowed and that that's how they steal the ball from each other).

I'm reminded of an eight-year-old Roan, chasing flies around our house with a yellow flyswatter, a sly smirk on his face.

"What's so funny?" Zain asks. I don't even realize I'm smiling.

"Nothing. I just remembered something."

She shakes her head and stands up. "I'm gonna get us some drinks and popcorn. I'll be right back."

I nod absentmindedly, letting her pass, as my eyes focus on number twelve.

Tave and Theo pass the ball back and forth across the field skillfully, their coordination perfect. Theo catches the ball with his net, speeds across the field, a zing of blue amidst green grass and red jerseys, zigzags between players, and turns sharply—almost inhumanely—throwing the ball in the net.

Like a reflex, I find myself standing with the crowd, cheering on the players as they slap each other's backs and huddle over one another. A joyful yell erupts from me before I can stop it, my hands clasped over my mouth. In that moment, I guess I understand the appeal to these games.

Theo catches my gaze, and I don't know if I imagine the wink he throws me.

I feel warm all over despite the chilling weather.

From my peripheral vision, Yvonne makes her way towards me, and any warmth of the moment recedes when I turn to her. Grove, I realize, sits in her place, glancing at us nervously.

I sit and gesture for her to sit in Zain's seat for the moment. "Yes?"

"You liking the game so far?" She asks with a sneer. She looks ahead at the field and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Yes, but I really don't think you care for my pleasure. What do you want?"

She takes her time replying, her golden hair flying like soft, beach grass dancing in the wind, faintly filling my senses with a fruity scent. "You're right, I don't care about your pleasure," she finally says. "I actually don't care about you at all. What I do care about, though, is getting what I want. And you've managed to become significant enough to get in my way."

"And where do I come in," I humor her dryly. "Is it my seat that you want?"

She scoffs with a shake of her head like she's in on something that I'm not. "Make all the jokes you want, but you know exactly what I mean." She turns to me, uncrossing her arms to place a hand on the back of my seat. "I'm giving you one last chance. No more games, no more of what happened at the fundraiser again, no more snooping around. Or else, you'll have wished you took a minute longer to savor this game you're watching in our school."

I want to tell her that I don't know what she's talking about, that she has nothing to worry about. But for once, I don't have a reply. I can only stare at her when she stands up and gives me one last glare before walking back to her seat, my heart pounding in my chest so hard that it drowns the crowd cheering as someone from our team scores again.

She knows.

I try to think of how she could've found out about me, my mind trailing loose ends, when an image of the guard by the door pops in my head. He must've told Yvonne after a little prodding from her side. Theo should've bribed him to keep his mouth shut for extra measure.

When Zain slides back into her seat, she balances two soda bottles and an overfilled paper box of popcorn.

"Here." She offers me the popcorn.

The salty scent makes me sick to my stomach, Yvonne's words still ringing in my head. I push it away as bile rises in my throat. "I'm good."

I watch the rest of the game absent-mindedly, only half aware when it ends a half-hour later. I think we win; I don't know for sure. Zain stands up and pulls me down as people pile out of the stands to where the players gather. I have to let Theo know, I think to myself.

But everyone is yelling and cheering and pushing, the adrenaline of the game still lingering in the air. People start to crowd around the team, congratulating them on the win from our side, and Zain grabs my arm amidst the dense mass to pull us closer to where Tave and Theo stand.

Their faces are flushed with sweat, eyes wide with a contagious thrill that makes me forget my worries for a minute. This close, it smells like sweat and salt.

Theo's eyes meet mine and he grins at me, showcasing a straight set of teeth, his flushed face spotted with grey dirt, and his hair matted to his forehead with dampness. I've never seen him this alive. He grabs my arm with his warm hands.

"Hi," I sigh, feeling out of breath.

"Hey." He has to raise his voice over the noise. "I didn't know you were going to be here."

"I forced her to come," Zain answers for me with a giggle.

I'm taken by surprise when Tave hangs a sweaty arm around my shoulders. "Our too cool of a friend only came here for me, Wetherton's star player."

I wrinkle my nose at his salty odor, shrugging out of his embrace good-heartedly. "Yeah right. That's exactly why I'm here." I turn to Theo. "I need to tell you something important."

"We're all going out for celebratory pizza. Come with," he says.

I shake my head, fixing him a look that I hope he understands. "I can't. It's . . . I can't tell you there."

His eyebrows furrow but before he can say anything else, their coach blows a whistle. The other players start piling to the locker rooms.

"Can it wait?"

Reluctantly, I nod my head. I don't want to wait, but there's no time or space to say more as he starts to be pulled away by his teammates. He looks at me one last time before finally giving in to the tide of the crowd that carries him to the locker room, and I'm met with the number twelve on his broad back.