On Monday, right before football practice is over, which is basically the only thing that gets me through a day, knowing that I will have football practice, in the locker room, our coach comes in, saying, "So, we've got a game on Saturday, as you have all known for a while now. We're training hard for that, and we're going to win it, yes? This is a difficult team, ranked highest in our league. Remember, be there an hour early, at 10:00 A.M. The game will start at 11:00 A.M., and likely end around 1:00 P.M., with halftime and added time, and the like. You all know." Then he's out of the room, before I can even process what was just said.
Then it hits me, and a bubble of anxiety rapidly blows up within me, making my arms and legs shake with the pressure. I watch as the door of the locker room closes, along with the coach, who just left the room.
There are all my football guys laughing, talking, around me, but suddenly, there is no sound at all, despite all the noise enveloping me.
I stare ahead of me, unsure what to do.
I have that stupid, stupid community service to do.
And why do I have to do it? Because I bought beer, and Reese Mallory Abbott had to go and tell on me. And why was I buying beer? Because my awful leech of a father made me. And why didn't the police believe me when I told them that? Because my nasty father and everyone I know was against me. They lied about me. They said I was insane. They lied, saying I was insane.
Now I really might go insane.
Who am I mad at? My father. So much. So, so much. Who else? Reese Mallory, but a lot less. A lot less. Who do I have the power over, though? Reese Mallory. Am I angry enough that I don't care about the consequences? Maybe... But then how many more games would I have to miss for more stupid community service, or something else worse, even?
"Hey, Antoine-e-e. Earth to Antoine-e-e," I suddenly begin to see, and hear. One of my teammates, a peppy boy with a wonderful life, comes into my line of sight, waving his hand in front of my face. Or maybe he was always in my line of sight and waving his hand, and I just realized it now.
"Yeah?" I say with a shake of my head, to wake myself back up from my thoughts.
"Have you been listening to the conversation? Because you look like you're about as far off the face of Earth, as, oh, I dunno, Mars? What's up? Thinking about your own cute girl or something?"
I chuckle, shaking my head, the smiling plastering back on my face. "No, not this time. Nothing... important." That feels like a huge understatement and possibly a lie.
"Then what?"
"None of your business to know what's going on in my head, right? I guess there's a reason God made sure we can't hear each other's thoughts." And, God, am I glad no one can hear mine. I feel like my thoughts are the only place where I can be real. Maybe I always feel no one, no one, completely understand me, thought, precisely because they can't hear my thoughts. For some reason, there are so many things I think that I would never dare to say aloud, no matter how much they might help in a situation or give me a better reputation.
Or even an easier time.
Or maybe it doesn't matter, and no matter what, I always kind of run into trouble, mind-reading or not.
"Yeah, I guess you're right about that. Sorry. Anyway, so we were talking about the cheerleaders."
"What about them?" Cheerleaders always peek my teenage interest, with their crop-tops and high ponytails.
"They are coming on the same bus as us to the game, because the normal bus they take isn't working right or something, and it'd be cruel to make them ride on the fan bus. Then, me and the boys are thinking about, maybe, just maybe, we could convince both our coaches to have a party after the game. Pool party. You know, to get the sweat off and have some fun. Eat some good food. And totally not because we want to see those hotties in bikinis." He snickers, like as if he's so sneaky, and as if a coach is never going to figure out the plans of some fifteen-, sixteen-, seventeen-, and eighteen-year-old guys.
I shrug, seeming uninterested, which, I'm sure, seems surprising to them. Usually, I'd be all in on making this plan happen, but now I could care less. It's not like I'll be able to go, anyway.
A pang of remembrance of words that Reese Mallory spoke to me come into my head, about me being selfish.
I swallow that.
My teammate stares at me, eyebrows lowered in concern. "Is everything alright, Antoine? You seem... off, maybe? Did something happen?"
"No," I sigh, shaking my head, looking no where but at the floor, as I stand up, picking up my sports bag. "Thanks for showing concern, man, but I'm fine. Just some stuff going on lately, but I'm good." I look up at him, remembering who I am. I'm Antoine Griezmann, the most charismatic guy with the most friends. I'm Antoine Griezmann, the guy every girl in the school wants.
I throw him a charming, authentic-looking smile, which I have become so good at pulling off, even in the most tiring, hurting moments. That's the price I pay, I guess, for needing everyone to like me. I guess it's worth it.
He grins back at me, like there's some understanding between us. Like as if he really knows me, and he really knows I'm completely fine.
Good, I'm glad he thinks that.
I look for our coach, hoping he's still here. He'll need a hugely advanced warning about this. He'll be annoyed at me. I don't care. Whatever. I just feel guilty, honestly. This is the best team we're playing, and I'm our best player. Quiet honestly, I'm terrified to learn what the score will be at the end of the game.
I see the coach, running over to him, getting ready to say to him what I have to say, and praying to God that everything, everything will resolve itself.
