Jack, September

Our first scrimmage against Westbury tonight did not go well. Cash Carson couldn't complete a pass to save his life. No surprise there, but that left me as the main workhorse on offense. I powered down the middle, gaining yards like a snail. We burned clock, but scoring inch by inch doesn't win games. The highlight of the night came when Darius Little fielded the kickoff and returned it for a touchdown. Darius wasn't slated to play special teams, but they put him in Peyton's spot when her secret came out. She was right about the bench. She didn't play a single snap. They have her way down on the depth chart now.

Still, she didn't quit, despite their pathetic attempts. The day after she came clean to the coaches, they started the campaign to oust her. After the infamous three-mile run, a text went out from the team captain saying that the coaches wanted us to convene early the next morning. Everyone but Peyton was on the thread. Nobody invited her to the team chat. But that was by design. The secret early meeting was about her—they wanted to hatch a plan.

"Alright boys," Coach Carson said as we huddled around him, "here's the deal. We can't ignore this problem. Principal Harvey made it clear that, thanks to Title IX, our new team member ain't going away, so we'll have to use other methods. Any ideas?"

Lucas McCallister raised his hand. "How about we make her do a milk mile?"

All the guys murmured their support of that plan. Morons.

"What's a milk mile?" Coach Murphy asked.

"It's when you drink a whole gallon of milk while running a mile," Lucas's twin brother Matthew chimed in.

"And puke your guts out," Lucas said. "It's hilarious."

Coach Carson looked up at the sky, shaking his head.

"Look!" Murphy barked, "I realize all y'all share one brain. So which one of you is in possession of that brain? That's the guy we need to hear from."

The players glanced around at each other, but nobody had an answer.

"It's Marshall," I said. "He's the one with the brain."

Marshall crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me, hard.

"Alright, Payne. Let's hear it," Coach Carson said.

He shook his head. Said nothing.

"Alright, alright," Murphy said. "We're running out of time. She'll be here any minute."

Cash cleared his throat. "This is what we're gonna do. We'll play it dirty. Hits after whistle. No rules. No mercy."

All the morons nodded their heads, setting the plan in motion.

"Officially, I cannot grant permission for y'all to take these measures. Not officially." Coach Carson winked at us.

I glanced over at Murphy who seemed uncomfortable with the whole deal.

I tried to warn her. I even offered to step in and stop it, but Peyton wouldn't hear of it.

"Look," she told me, "I've gotta defend myself or none of these asshats is going to respect me, got it? I appreciate your concern, but I'll be okay."

And she was right. She was tougher than they bargained, and just kept coming back, day after day, despite the bruises, head-to-head targeting, and dirty hits.

And, strange as it is, she was also right about earning the respect of a lot of guys on the team. But the coaches still don't seem to want to take a gamble on her.

She's probably safer on the bench, but even power backs need a rest once in a while. I could have used a back-up tonight.

When I'm done showering, I grab my clothes out of my locker. Marshall is standing there getting dressed too.

"You going to the party at the lake?" I ask him.

"Nah," he says, pulling his tee shirt over his head.

"Why not? Supposed to be a rager," I say.

"I'm not really into parties," he replies.

I shake my head. "I'm Marshall," I say in a mocking voice. "I'm too cool for parties. I'm too alone for parties." 

He laughs and sighs. "Smartass."

"All right, suit yourself." I smile and wink at him. Most people are scared of Marshall because he's like six-foot-three and two-hundred fifty pounds of muscle with black eyes and long dreads. But I'm nearly as big. And I know better. He doesn't mind being teased. In fact, I think part of him likes it a little.

As I'm walking out of the locker room to my truck, I spy Peyton's old Ford Explorer still in the lot. It's running, and she sits in the driver's seat with her forehead resting on the steering wheel. I put my hands up around my eyes to peer in the passenger window. She's in there, eyes closed, talking to herself.

She mumbles to herself a lot. It's one of the many things I've noted about her.

I knock, and she jumps about ten feet. I open the passenger door and slide into the seat.

"Hey, were you just talking to yourself?"

She turns away from me and rubs her cheek into her shoulder. Then she clears her throat and turns back to me. Her eyes are red, glassy, with a film of tears.

"Dude, are you crying, Thomas?"

She shakes her head and says something about the heat, even though the cabin of her car is like a damn freezer. I study her face and the way the sadness is etched there like a name carved faintly in a tree.

"Hey, it's okay. It was a tough loss, but it doesn't count. I'll play better next time," I tell her.

She looks down at her lap, shaking her head. "You had a good game, Chaplin," she says softly. "Don't blame yourself."

She's still in football pants and compression shirt. I guess she doesn't know about the party. "Hey," I say. "You wanna go to the lake with us? There's a big end of summer bash, and a bunch of us guys are going."

"Like who?" she asks.

"Most of the players."

"Any girls?"

"There's always girls, Thomas. Everyone's invited. I could introduce you around."

She sighs.

"Come on, Thomas. Don't be such a wimp." I give her my most killer smile.

She sits there for a moment contemplating. "Okay, but I need to change."

While she's in the locker room, I take an opportunity to rifle through her personal items. Have to get info on her somehow. 

So far, I've catalogued a bottle of Pepto Bismol and a couple of albums by someone called AWOL Nation mixed in with other CDs. I didn't know anyone even had CDs anymore. But her car is old, built in the CD era, so I guess it makes sense. Last, I find a crumpled plastic HEB bag. I pull the bag out of her center console and untie it.

I have to do a double take.

It's hair. Her hair, I think. There's one long ponytail bound together with a band and a bunch of shorter pieces. It's soft and pale, the color of a palomino's mane. I bring the ponytail up to my nose and inhale her scent. It's a strange combination of campfire and cookies.

I place it back in the bag and quickly retie it. As I'm closing the center console, Marshall strolls by on his way to his truck. I roll down the window.

"See ya, man," I say. "Have a good night."

He stops and assesses the situation. "Isn't this Peyton's car?" He asks.

"Yeah. I'm waiting for her to get changed so we can go to the party."

He nods and studies me some more before continuing to his truck.

A few minutes later, Peyton climbs back in her car, and I give her directions to the lake. We ride in silence for a while. My eyes rove over the way the muscles strain against the taught skin of  tanned forearms as she grasps the wheel. All of a sudden, she gets goose bumps, and the little blonde hairs on her arms stand straight up. She shivers.

"You all right, Thomas?" I ask.

"Yeah." She nods. "Yeah, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine."

For some reason, I don't believe her. I try grilling her some more, about her personal life and family. But again, I don't get much. All I know is she has a younger sister who will be a sophomore at our school, Blue Lake High. But somehow, she got me to tell her my whole life story. How I'm the youngest of five boys and grew up on a cattle ranch. What my brothers are up to now. My relationship with my parents. All of it. I'm still not sure how it is she got so much out of me, and I got crumbs in return. But I'm following those crumbs like Hansel in that fairytale.

When we arrive at the party, it's already in full swing. I glance over at Peyton, who looks terrified. This is probably her worst nightmare. People are dancing to Polo G around a giant bonfire near the shore. The music is blaring from Geno's car.

We stop to talk to Darius, Lamar, and all the other guys gathered there.

"Hey Geno," I say, "can I switch the music?"

He rolls his eyes. "As long as it isn't country."

"Aw, come on, Geno. I know Willie's your jam." I crawl in his car, open his Spotify, and select Earth, Wind, and Fire. It starts playing "September." When I emerge, who should be standing there but Marshall Payne.

"I see you changed your mind," I mutter, wondering why he decided to show after all. He just nods in response.

We stand there for a bit, debating the play calling and personnel choices in tonight's game. Peyton is introduced to Darius's girlfriend Felicia and her two sidekicks from the cheer squad, Alyssa and Hope.

"You're the girl football player!" Alyssa says. "I heard about you."

Peyton's eyes shift from side to side. "What did you hear?" she asks, all suspicious.

Hope chimes in. "We know your sister, from cheer tryouts. She told us about you."

Peyton looks up at the night, nodding. She seems annoyed. I get the feeling that the sister is a bit of a sore spot with her.

As we walk away toward the lakeshore, a little thing in a cheer uniform bounds up to us. She's a miniature of Peyton, but with hair. Hair with a giant bow attached to it.

"Peyton? What are you doing here?"

"Hey Bow-mobile. What's up," Peyton responds, drily.

"You never go to parties. I can't believe you're here," she says. Her voice is high-pitched, slightly squeaky. Nothing like her sister's. Two more cheerleaders, Hillary and Cookie, join us to observe the exchange.

"Welp," Peyton clips. "Here I am."

Her sister's eyes dart from Peyton, to me, and back to Peyton, sending her telepathic signals of some sort. Peyton takes a deep breath and says, "Emma, this is Jack. Jack, this is my sister, Emma. She likes bows..."

Emma has Peyton's square jaw and almond shaped eyes, but hers are lined with makeup. Her lip-glossed smile dazzles, with dimples just like Peyton's. I find myself smiling back. Her energy is the exact opposite of her sister's. She's perky, open, and upbeat. If she were one of the seven dwarves, she'd definitely be Happy. Meanwhile, Grumpy over there looks like she's ready to wring her sister's neck.

Just then, Cash Carson materializes out of nowhere, asking to be introduced to Emma.

He's such a turd. He's been dating the same girl, Bree Barnes, since they were freshmen. Everyone calls her Queen Bree because she's captain of the cheerleading squad, gets voted homecoming queen of the class every year, and has racked up quite a few beauty pageant trophies. She's considered the most desirable girl at our school. I've known her since kindergarten, and I can tell you, she's not who most people think she is. A lot more complicated, but that's a long story. Anyway, she'd be pretty pissed off if she saw her boyfriend flirting with a sophomore.

"Come on, Peyton," I say, quietly. "Let's get a drink."

We walk off together, leaving Cash with the girls. There's a keg, but neither of us is in the mood, so we make the rounds. I think I introduce her to just about everyone I know. I've lived here my whole life, so I have no idea what it must be like to start over at a new school. Anyway, I don't know if it's helping, but at least she'll have a few familiar faces when we go back next week.

"You ready to pack it up?" I ask her around midnight.

She nods. When I nonchalantly put my arm around her shoulder as we walk to her car, she stiffens, so I just kind of pat her on the back like an idiot. Then she stops and turns to face me.

"Jack?" she asks, looking into my eyes.

"Yeah?" I say softly.

"Can you do something for me?"

"Name it."

"Can you?" she starts to ask, but then just says, "never mind."

"What is it?" Ask me to kiss you. Please ask me to kiss you.

"It's my sister. She's had some drinks with her friends. I just...don't want anything to, you know, happen to her."

I deflate a little, but then realize that she actually cares about someone. She cares about her sister.

"You want me to go fish her out of there?"

"Would you? I don't think she'll come with me of her own accord."

"Sure thing," I say. "Be right back."

I walk into the crowd, spot Emma, and say, "You're coming with me."

Her eyes grow wide along with her smile. I bend down and hoist her over my shoulder like a sack of grain. She's squealing and giggling as we make our way to Peyton who leans against her car watching Cash and Bree make out on the tailgate of his Ford Raptor. The red truck nuts hanging from his tow hitch peek out from behind their legs. I swear, he's such a douchebag.

Peyton opens the door, and as I set Emma down, she grabs my arms and says, "Sank you," before closing her eyes.

The ride home is the best part of the night. Peyton and I are chatting about the other players, offensive scheme, and future match-ups. She seems more relaxed and open than I've ever seen her.

"What's the deal with Marshall Payne?" She asks me.

"What do you mean?"

Her eyes shift from the road to me. "I mean, can he talk?" 

"Sure. Yeah. Just the strong silent type." I get a twinge in my gut. Why is she so curious about him?

She turns back to concentrate on the road. "He sort of looks like the type of guy that'll rip your heart out and eat it if you say something to him."

"Marshall? Nah, he's a big softy."

She scoffs. "I find that hard to believe."

We're almost back to the school, and Emma comes to and demands to be part of the conversation.

"I talka to you! Cancha hear me talka to you?"

Peyton rolls her eyes.

"Lemme askya sumpin, Jack. Lemme askya," Emma slurs as she hits me on the arm with the back of her hand. "Why do you think a pretty girl like my shishter would shave off her hair? Such pretty, pretty hair..."

"I dunno, to disguise herself as a boy to make the team?" I wink at Peyton, but she just glares at me and shakes her head.

"Bingo, Ringo!" Emma shouts. "She wansa be a boy. She wansa be my brudder."

"Is that right?" I ask, glancing at Peyton. Maybe there's a lot going on that I never even considered. Maybe she's really not happy, you know, being female.

"Damn straight, Cowboy. But I already had a brudder. Who was a boy."

"So, where's your brother now?" I ask Emma. I didn't know they had a brother. Then again, I don't know much at all about this girl.

"Oh..." she sings in that high voice, "he's dead now. Dead, dead, dead...and Peyton..." She yawns. "Peyton can't be him. She's gotta be...her..."

I glance from the back seat where Emma has passed out again to Peyton's profile. Her jaw is clenched. She stares straight ahead, but tears form in her eyes.

And, just like that, she's gone. I see it in a moment—like a moonflower closing when touched by the sun.