Wildflowers

Jack, October

I'm sitting in flower arranging class trying not to fall asleep as Ms. Pickle demonstrates how to use a pumpkin shell as a vase for special holiday centerpieces. This is not something I ever thought I'd need to know.

Ms. Pickle teaches floral design in the fall and home economics in the spring. I'm signed up with her all year long. Word is, if you get on her good side, she'll give you an A no matter how banged your bouquets or biscuits turn out.

She might be an easy grader, but she's like a drill sergeant in the classroom. When she's done with her demonstration, she barks instructions for us to get started.

"Grab your gourd! Remember, it doesn't have to be orange. Dare to be different. Be bold! You and your partner determine what to use as the vessel based on the size of the shell. Big gourds require wide mouth Mason jars—either a pint or a quart, depending on the gourd. Baby gourds get the half-pint. And don't forget the frog! Frogs are essential." 

I turn to Bree who is clearly not engaged. She's writing in her little notebook thingy again. I lean over to try to read what she's working on, but she immediately closes it.

"Your secret diary?" I ask, grinning.

She smiles faintly, shrugging. "Sort of."

"You wanna small baby or a big baby?"

"What?" Her eyebrows draw together as she looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Pickle wants us to pick a pumpkin," I explain.

"Oh," she says, kind of spacey. "You sound like you're reciting nursery rhymes."

"Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater?" I ask.

"Had a wife but couldn't keep her," she responds. "So, he put her in a...pumpkin shell?" She tilts her head and gives me a puzzled look.

"That's kinda fucked up. Never really thought about it before..."

"Chaplin! Barnes! What's the hold-up?" Pickle calls from across the room.

"Not a thing, Ms. Pickle. Just debating what size gourd to employ. It's not a decision to be taken lightly."

"Okay smarty pants, just pick a pumpkin." She sniffs. She's serious about this shit.

By the time I get to the station, gourd selection is limited. I choose a small white pumpkin with a half-pint jar while Bree picks out some flowers. She comes back with a collection—all white.

"You forgot your frog, Chaplin. Essential," Ms. Pickle says, sashaying across the room. She stops when she gets to our table. "Chrysanthemums, lilies, and carnations, Barnes? Interesting."

Bree smiles weakly. "I like monochromatic. Should I have chosen something else?"

"No, no. They're an expression of your personality—they suit you. Elegant. Cultivated. I always advise my students to listen to their inner floral designer. Yours seems to be telling you to plan a wedding or baby shower." Pickle laughs. "Kidding, kidding." She waves her hand back and forth. "It's not a particularly autumnal color scheme, but it goes perfectly with this little baby," she says, patting my pumpkin affectionately.

Bree simply nods. She doesn't even snark when Pickle walks away, which is not at all like her.

"You okay, Bree?"

"Yeah," she says. "But I don't understand what frogs have to do with fall."

Lord, this girl. She obviously hasn't been paying attention all semester. She's always got her nose in that diary or whatever it is she's writing.

"It's not a real frog. It's that little metal doohickey that goes in the bottom of the vase."

"Oh..." she says with a faraway gaze.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

She nods. I go retrieve a frog that will fit in that tiny jar. When I come back, she's staring down at the flowers strewn in front of her. Giant tears plop from her cheeks onto the petals.

"Bree...what is it?" I ask quietly.

She shakes her head.

"Bree, come on. What's going on? Is it Cash again?"

She sniffs. "He asked Hillary to homecoming," she says, still looking down.

That dick. He knows Hillary is her best friend. "Oh, yeah. Homecoming."

"It's okay. I mean, I think they're just friends."

"What happened to the chipmunk?"

She shrugs. "Don't know and don't care."

"Well, he's obviously trying to make you jealous again."

She nods. "I know. But it still sucks because I don't have a date to homecoming."

Ugh. Is that what this is about? I probably should have asked her, but I was secretly hoping things would have moved forward with Peyton by now. That I would be comfortable enough to ask her. But I haven't gotten to that point yet, and I'm not in the market for more rejection. And now Homecoming is a little over a week away, so I doubt that's going to happen. The thing is, you can't just low-key ask a girl. Now they expect you to do all this stuff to ask them. Like posters with some stupid pun. For example, if a guy's girlfriend happens to eat a lot Skittles, his poster would say something cheesy like, "Skittle me this—will you be my date to HOCO?" and it would have little bags of Skittles all over it.

It's a whole production now. I blame Instagram.

At the same time, I know Bree was expecting me to ask her because we've been hanging out. I haven't even kissed her yet. She's definitely hinted, but I played dumb every time. Sometimes not being the smartest guy in the world has its perks. But there's that guilt gnawing away at me just the same. 

"Can I borrow a piece of paper?" I ask her.

She opens her notebook. I watch closely as she's leafing through to find a blank page. Everything in there looks like poems. Or songs. She plays the piano, and I remember she told me once that she liked writing songs. She wants to be a singer, I think. At least that's what she used to do in the pageants. She would play piano and sing. She showed me a video once. She's actually really good. It's like she transforms into this other person on stage.

She slowly tears a sheet along the perforations and hands it to me. I sit at the table, my back turned to her and scribble down the first thing that comes to mind.

I roll it up into a little scroll and tie it with some of the ribbon we're supposed to use on the centerpieces. Then I take one of each of the flowers she collected and tuck the stems into the ribbon.

"What's that?" She asks, a slow smile lighting up her eyes.

"For you." I hand her the little bouquet.

She grins, biting her lower lip. She's very sexy when she does that. I must have a thing with lower lips.

She pulls the note from the ribbon and unrolls it. She reads it softly aloud.

Bree you are too pretty

To let him treat you shitty

You're also hella smart

And have a great big heart

So even though this is lame

I hope you like my game

I'm just trying to ask you, Bree,

Will you go to HOCO with a hick like me?

She smiles. "You're not a hick."

"Debatable," I say, grinning back.

"Jack, you don't have to ask me just because I'm upset."

"I know. I'm not. All that stuff I wrote. I mean it. I should have done something bigger for you. I've just been distracted."

She nods. She has tears in her eyes when she says, "No, it's perfect. I love it. And yes, I will." She stands on her tiptoes, kisses me on the cheek, then hugs me tight. It feels good to be wanted. Or, I guess, needed.

When I look up, Pickle is standing across the room watching us. Her mouth twists into a little grin, and I swear to God, she winks at me. 

*****

            So I made a decision. I'm done worrying about Peyton. She obviously has zero interest in anyone, let alone me. I decide to love the one I'm with, so to speak. I don't think this will last long anyway, so I may as well ride the wave for a while.

            I'm standing on the sidelines watching the starting kickoff. I'm playing both ways tonight, and kind of dreading it. Then I glance over at Peyton and instantly feel bad for thinking that way. I'm sure she'd give anything to play at all. They benched her again, and I can tell you that she's not a bit happy about it. It's kind of bullshit, if you ask me. Louie Diaz is ineligible because he's failing Chemistry, which means we'll have no safeties. None. They're so damn ignorant. They know she can do the job, but they refuse to play her. Or, I should say Coach Carson refuses. I get a feeling that Murph would be happy to send her out.

We're losing by two touchdowns at halftime. When we head out of the locker room for the second half, I see Murph pull her aside. They're having some kind of intense conversation. Then, when he sends the defense onto the field, she puts on her helmet and joins the huddle.

She does an amazing job covering her receiver. Seriously, the guy should have joined the witness protection program because she never let him drop his guard. Not once. They struggle to put together a series to get them down the field. We've been holding at 7-21 the entire second half when the coaches call a play-action pass—Darius is supposed to fake the handoff to me, and then throw it to an open receiver instead. It works, and we score. On the extra-point, we get a two-point conversion on our bootleg, making it 15-21.

I jog back to the sideline and stand next to Peyton while the kickoff team gets ready.

"Nice acting job, Chaplin," she says, raising her eyebrows.

Yesss. She saw that. I try to stay cool. "Acting is about all I'm good for right now."

She sort of nudges me in the shoulder, and next thing I know, I wrap my arm around her and squeeze her to me. Sparks fly, as usual, but I don't have much time to dwell on it before I have to take the field again.

At the two minute warning, it's looking grim. Still 21-15, and the Indians are driving down the field. Marshall and I are doing our best to contain the run, so they're not making much progress on the ground. That means they have to go through the air. It's first and goal with less than two minutes on the clock. We have to get a stop or a turnover to have any chance of winning. The Indians QB takes the snap, fakes a handoff to the running back, and drops back to pass. Marshall blitzes, hitting the QB just as he's releasing the ball, which flies through the air like a drunk duck toward the receiver Peyton is guarding.

She's tracking the trajectory of the ball as it's flying toward the end zone, and leaps up, wraps her hands around it and cradles it to her chest.

Interception!

But she's not done yet. She starts running through the gap as one of their players is angling toward her for a sideline tackle. I get to him before he can get to her, pancaking him to the ground. It's open field from there, and she runs. She runs like a hawk flying low over a field of wildflowers after capturing prey.

Effortless. Beautiful.

When she gets to the end zone, she falls to her knees and bows her head as if in prayer. And in that moment, I see her at her core.

I see her essence, her spirit, wild and free.