Listerine

January

I've never been so excited to go back to school. When third period bell releases us for lunch, I still don't see Peyton anywhere, so I go find Marshall at his locker.

"Hey, you seen Thomas?"

He doesn't look at me, just continues putting his stuff inside.

"Marshall, can you hear me talking?"

He throws his head back and exhales as he shut his locker, then he turns to face me. "Hey Chaplin," is all he says.

"Hey. So have you seen her?"

He nods. "She had to meet with the counselor."

"Oh. Why?"

He glares at me and shakes his head. "Don't know."

This guy, I swear. "Marshall, you just had English class with her. I know you know. What's going on?"

When he starts walking towards the cafeteria, I fall in step with him. "All she said was it's something about her schedule. They gotta change it." He shrugs.

"Oh. Why?"

This time he smiles like he's amused, laughing at me. "Just ask her, Chaplin."

I'm sitting in fifth period waiting for class to start when I hear a soft voice ask, "Is this seat taken?" I look up. It's Peyton.

"What are you doing here?" I study her, puzzled as she takes the empty chair next to me. Serious arrythmia ensues.

"What do you mean?"

"You're aware this is home economics, right?"

She gives me the side eye. "Unfortunately."

"Well, I hear it's an easy A."

She sighs. "I wanted to take psychology, but they only offer that third period. The only half-year electives for fifth period are this or health, but I took health at my last school. So, you're stuck with me."

"I'm not mad about it." I wink at her.

She rolls her eyes. "It's probably a conspiracy. I bet they coincidentally make all the girls take it."

"Aw, don't be so salty. Pickle is the bomb. I had her last semester during third period for floral arranging."

She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "Pickle?"

"Yeah, the teacher." I nod toward the back of the room where Ms. Pickle is prepping for class. It's a huge space, part lab, part kitchen. There are several long narrow tables on one end, and on the other is the kitchen area with a rows of wall ovens, cook tops, microwaves, and sinks. There's also a big refrigerator and some sewing machines pushed in one corner.

Peyton sighs. "Homemaking isn't really my thing. I'm a total disaster when it comes to laundry and cooking. Don't even get me started on childcare. I once babysat an infant who cried the entire time except for the ten minutes that she projectile vomited all over me. About the only thing I'm good for is loading a dishwasher. I can also organize a refrigerator like a boss. But that's my limit."

"Okay, people!" Ms. Pickle calls us to attention.

"Cue Pickle," I whisper. "She's super serious about all things domestic."

She's wearing a chef's apron displaying a picture of a big green pickle with legs and a face that stands next to the words "I'm kind of a big DILL." She takes a long deep breath through flared nostrils and then begins her spiel.

"This is Principles of Human Services. As some of you may have guessed, that's PC for home economics. For whatever reason, the powers that be in the Texas Board of Education have decided that home ec is now politically incorrect. No matter the name, domicile is the game. This is my house. Pickle's house. You are welcome in Pickle's house as long as you remember that I run this household. I run it like a well-oiled machine. We'll start with food preparation (cold and hot), then move to child management (care and feeding), textiles (creation and upkeep), and end with basics of home maintenance (repair and cleaning). Despite what you may have heard, this isn't a class for wimps. There will be babies. Robot babies. And yes, you have heard correctly. Robot babies are terrifying."

About ten hands go up all at once. Peyton turns to me, wide-eyed.

When the bell dismisses us, we head out the door together for football. In the off-season, it's mostly workouts, but I'm still looking forward to it. Just then, Hillary comes up from behind and inserts herself between us, disrupting our electrical current.

"Hey Jack Chaplin," she coos.

"Hey Hill."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, Ms. Pickle is as bad as they all said." 

"She's pretty excited about domesticity," I say.

"So, what's up with your girlfriend today?"

"My girlfriend?" I glance at Peyton who stares straight ahead.

"Bree? She isn't here today. She hasn't been answering my texts. What's up with that?"

Bree is supposedly Hillary's BFF, so she's annoyed that she's been cut out of the loop.

"I don't know. Over the break she told me she was sorting some stuff out. Said she might transfer." I shrug.

"What? She didn't tell me that. Something's going on with that bitch. And I'm gonna find out what it is." She huffs and storms away. A woman on a mission.

"Bree cut you loose, huh?" Peyton asks.

"I guess." It's not a lie, exactly. The truth is, I don't really know if she cut me loose or not. She told me she'd decided to try the music school in Nashville. But she never mentioned anything about what that meant for us, just said she has a bunch of stuff on her mind. To be honest, I kind of stopped listening at some point. She tends to ramble.

Peyton cocks her head and studies my face. "You good with that?" she asks.

"Yeah. It's all good. I think she's just kind of..."

"Kind of what?"

"Lost, I guess. I don't know."

"Lost?" She raises her eyebrows. "I have a hard time imagining Bree Barnes as lost. She always seems to know exactly what she wants."

"Yeah," I say. I'm kind of just making things up, not thinking it through. She's right. Bree has always been determined. Goal-oriented. But this time, her determination is bordering on desperation. It feels like she's looking for an escape route.

I'm just not real clear on what she's escaping.

*****

Today is lower-body workout, so I put on my school-issued shorts and shirt and try to get excited about an hour's worth of squats, dead lifts, and power-cleans. When I walk over to the deadlift station, they've already got the rap music blaring.

I scan the room and find Marshall and Peyton over by the squat rack. I guess they've partnered up. 

Whatever.

I keep a close eye on their reflection in the mirror.

She unloads the barbell from the rack to her shoulders and stares at herself in the mirror, breathing deeply. I'm a few yards away from them, channeling this jealous rage into my deadlifts as I watch. She starts her squat downward, slowly. Marshall moves with her, his forearms hovering under her lats. As she reaches the bottom of the move, she wavers. Marshall senses her failing, so he wraps his arms up and around her shoulders, helping her with the upward movement.

"You got this," he says loudly, encouraging her. She makes it back up and hoists the bar on the rack.

"You hurt yourself?" He asks.

She shakes her head. "Nah, I'm a beast, Marshall."

"Okay, beast. How bout we take a ten plate off each side so you don't herniate a disc or something."

She rolls her eyes and smiles at Marshall's reflection. Then she glances at me. We lock eyes briefly in the mirror. Hers seem full of questions, and I'm pretty sure mine are full of irritation, so I turn my attention back to the deadlift.

At the end of class, the coach gathers us up.

"Listen, any of y'all interested in playing for the spring seven-man football team this year, be advised that evaluations start next week after school. This ain't like the regular season. Ain't everyone gonna make a team. If you're not a skilled position, don't bother. If you can't run a forty in under five and a half seconds, don't bother. We ain't looking for no lollygaggers."

I glance around me trying to gauge interest. I think Peyton will try out. And I'm pretty sure Geno Jackson and Darius Little will. They're the two fastest guys on the team. Marshall is a great defensive player with incredible instincts, but I'm not sure if he'll have weekends. He's got a bunch of lacrosse showcases lined up.

Not sad about that. 

It'll be good to finally get rid of him for a while. 

*****

The next day, I'm walking down the hall toward home ec when I see them in the hall together. That's usually pretty normal, but this time they're hugging.

What the fuck?

She's got her head buried in his chest. It looks hella intimate. My gut twinges, and I feel my jaw tighten.

I'm never getting rid of him.

They just stand there like that, Marshall looking slightly awkward with his nose in her hair.

Stop smelling her hair, Batman!

Then he glances up and sees me staring. He shifts slightly, clearing his throat.

"Hey, Chaplin," he says.

Peyton startles, raises her eyes to meet mine. I make eye contact with her briefly. She seems upset, like he was comforting her or some shit.

When I look back at him, his eyes glitter like hard black diamonds.

We're friends sort of, but this doesn't feel friendly.

This feels like we're battling over territory.