Who is He (And What is He to You?)

Jack, October

Since she made that touchdown Friday night, the entire school is buzzing about Peyton. She's been taken from the shadows and thrust into the spotlight, over night. Most people are being cool about it, but there are still the haters who are more comfortable with the status quo.

Bree might just be one of them.

"I just find it very suspect, that's all," she says to me as we're walking to lunch.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it. Cash is out due to injuries. Injuries inflicted on him by her boy, Marshall. And now that Cash is out, she gets her opportunity to play. Don't you think that was all part of her plan?"

"Her boy, Marshall?" I'm starting to get annoyed.

She shrugs. "Haven't you noticed that they're always together? Like in the halls and stuff."

"So, you're saying that she's the mastermind behind this whole thing?"

"I'm saying it's possible that all of this isn't a coincidence."

"Who's telling you this shit? Cash?"

She stops and turns to stare me down. "I can think for myself, Chap."

"Okay, detective. But it still doesn't make sense. She got to play because Louie Diaz was failing chemistry. Do you think she and the chemistry teacher are in cahoots too? I really don't think she's that calculating." I start walking toward the cafeteria again.

"You're too trusting," she says, catching up and looping her arm through mine. "And you underestimate how manipulative girls can be."

I don't tell her the real reason Marshall attacked Cash. Maybe I should, but that can't come out. Peyton would be humiliated if everyone knew. And I'm not so trusting to believe that Bree would keep that info to herself. Or wouldn't twist it to make Peyton the guilty party somehow.

Bree sits across from me as I unpack my lunch. "Did your mommy make you that?" She asks with a sly smile.

I look down at my smoked turkey with cream cheese, avocado, and spinach on a whole grain bun, protein shake, banana, and chocolate chip cookies.

"Ma likes her boy to stay well-nourished."

"Must be nice," is all she says.

Her mom moved away to Nashville to pursue her dream of being a country singer when Bree was only fourteen, leaving her with the grandmother. And her dad struggles with some kind of addiction. Bree doesn't like to talk about him because she's embarrassed. He lives in the trailer park, taking odd jobs now and again, but he's basically unemployed and surviving on food stamps. Her folks separated when she was still a little kid, but before that, I get the feeling it was an abusive household. Her grandmother takes good care of her in that big house on the square in the historic district, making sure that Bree has the best—private piano lessons, nice clothes, a reliable car. To the outside world, Bree appears to have lived a charmed life. I've been friends with her long enough to know otherwise. I'm not even sure Cash is aware of the whole story.

"You want half my sandwich?" I ask.

She shakes her head. She hardly ever eats anything.

"Banana?"

"I wouldn't want Mama Chaplin to be upset that I robbed her boy of nutrition," she snarks.

"You need to eat something, Bree."

She pulls an apple and a granola bar out of her purse. "There. Satisfied?"

I shake my head and push a cookie over to her. She smiles. "Okay, you win. You just love watching out for me, huh, Chap."

When I'm done eating, I stuff all the leavings back into the brown bag and walk it over to the trash by the windows. I see Peyton sitting cross-legged under her tree deep in conversation with some guy. I squint to get a better look. He's got long dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Ugh. What the hell is she doing with Lowery?

He stands and offers her a hand, pulling her up close to him. They say a few more words to each other, and then her eyes shift from his face to focus on mine. We both freeze for a couple of beats just staring at each other before I turn back to the table.

It's nauseating. I'm sure she has no idea that Logan Lowery is a total poser. The kid is sketchy, and I don't trust him at all.

*****

Thursday afternoon at practice we're running a swap, which is a type of scrimmage where the offensive players switch to defense and vice-versa. Since I mainly play running back, they have me at linebacker. Micah McCoy, our outside linebacker is playing QB, Marshall is fullback, and Peyton is playing halfback.

We run a few plays, mostly play-action fakes where Micah pretends to hand the ball to Peyton when he really plans to pass it to an open receiver or keep it on a bootleg. When Peyton lines up out to the right of Micah, I figure they must have called a jet sweep, so I track her. The ball is snapped, and she runs toward Micah for the handoff and keeps running around the left side while Marshall clears a path for her to get into open field. She's heading in my direction, and if I don't catch her before she gets past me, I know I won't be able to, so I stay patient. She has to cut right, or she'll go out of bounds, and when she does, I snag her. We both thud to the turf, and she lets out a small whimper as the weight of my body slams her into the ground, forcing the air out of her lungs. Then she's quiet and so still. I search her face for signs of pain, but her eyes are closed, her breathing labored.

She slowly opens her eyes, focusing on my face.

"You okay, Thomas?" I'm worried I really hurt her.

I'm lying there on top of her, scared that if I move, I might make any injuries worse. She's still not moving, probably because the entire length of my body is pressed against hers. Suddenly I become very aware of her heat, her energy.

This is not the time to get turned on.

She shifts underneath me, and my hips sink lower. It feels incredibly intimate. And incredibly right.

I clear my throat. "Thomas?"

She's still unresponsive. So now I'm both aroused and worried. She looks into my eyes, studying my expression, almost like she's trying to interpret what she sees there. I pray she can't see what I'm feeling right now.

"Thomas, you're scaring the shit out of me. Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head. "I think I'm okay."

But she doesn't look okay. She seems kind of freaked out, like she was feeling exactly what I was feeling.

But that's probably just wishful thinking again.

After practice, I catch up to her in the parking lot. She's sitting in the back of her explorer under the shade of the liftgate, taking her gear off.

"Hey, Bro," she says, smiling. Well, she's in a good mood. For some reason, that irks me.

"Hey, Supah-Stah," I shoot back. "How many tuddies you gonna score tomorrow night?"

She sits there untying her cleats, giving me the side eye. "I'm just happy to play, Chaplin."

"Yeah, I know. So, hey..." I'm trying to sound chill. "You, uh, hanging out with Logan Lowery now?"

She turns her face toward me and levels that icy stare. "You saw me talking to him."

"You friends or something?" I sit down next to her in the hatch.

She shakes her head. "Not really. He's just been stalking me all semester."

"What?" This is alarming.

"He watches me. Like from a distance at lunch. I'll be reading, and then all of a sudden I get this feeling someone's watching me. When I look up, it's him. Always him. He sits by himself over on that concrete wall."

"Do you want me to kick his ass?" I'm totally serious.

No!" She giggles. I don't know if I've ever heard her giggle. It's wonderful. I can't help but smile back. I get this warm tingly feeling that sort of creeps from my gut up into my chest.

"No, I think it's fine," she continues. "I think, I don't know, that maybe he likes me."

"Ugh."

"What? You don't approve." She narrows her eyes at me.

No, I don't approve! Guy's a little shitbag. Whatever.

I just raise my palms up and shrug.

"Well, I guess we'll find out. He asked me to homecoming."

I'm going to kill him. "Are you going?"

"I said I would, yes."

I just nod. I'm such a moron. "Well, suit yourself."

She studies my face for a few beats as she peels off her socks, one by one. Her feet have these teeny tiny dimples imprinted on them from where the cotton has pressed against her skin. I know she's still watching my face, but I can't tear my eyes away from her toes. Most girls paint their toenails and spend a shitload of money on manis or pedis or whatever. Like Bree, she'll drop fifty bucks just to have someone massage her feet and doll them up. Peyton's toes are bare, nails clipped and clean. And they have a clear chain of command, from biggest to little, like stairsteps. They're perfect.

"Besides," she says, ducking her head down to get my attention. "It's not like anyone else asked me." She raises her eyebrows and smiles. "They're not exactly lining up."

I nod, still in a daze because her damn feet.

"What about you?" She asks.

"Me?" I have no idea what she's asking. 

"Yeah, are you going to homecoming?"

"Oh!" I'm a moron. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm going."

"With Bree?"

"Yeah."

She just nods, looking down at her perfect feet as she slips them into her flip-flops. "I figured," she says. Her tone is light, but her face seems sort of sad or disappointed.

"You looking forward to it?" I'm trying to imagine Peyton at a school dance and having a very hard time painting that picture.

"Equal parts excitement and dread. I've never been to a dance."

"Really?" Now this actually surprises me.

"Jack, I've never even gone on a date."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure Logan won't disappoint." I wink at her. I can't help teasing. She just smiles and punches me in the arm.

"Well, if I go missing shortly thereafter, be sure to check the trunk of Logan's car for my severed body parts," she says to me, completely deadpan.

I chuckle, shake my head. "You're a character, Thomas. A real character."

"Hey, Chap!" I turn and see Bree yelling at me from the gym doorway.

"Oh shit," I say, looking at Peyton. "Gotta go. Forgot about dance practice."

She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. "Can't wait to hear all about this."

"Yeah, not my idea. Catch you tomorrow, Thomas."

As I'm walking toward Bree, Peyton calls my name softly.

I turn and say "yeah?"

She tilts her head a bit, focusing on the gym behind me. Then she shakes her head. "Never mind."

"No, Seriously, what is it?"

"Nothing. You go dance your ass off, Chaplin." She chin nods and gives me a small smile.