Through the Break in Her Hair

Chapter 12

Game day. It had arrived just as suddenly as the frigid temperature drop. One day we were out in jeans and T's, and the next we cocooned ourselves in sweaters, scarves, and double-wall insulated pants. Good for football players, I suppose. Miserable for the rest of us poor wretches who had to sit on the metallic ice sculptures we called bleachers.

Ben and I used to joke that our junk would freeze to them, and we'd have to chisel ourselves free if we sat too long. But Ben and I still weren't speaking, and Van was not a joker. That was the sucky part of this camaraderie. Well, one of the sucky parts.

The other would be that I was second guessing myself on everything. I didn't feel confident anymore. Not in who I was or what I said, not even in my geometry class. It was like walking a tight rope between the John I wanted to be and the John I actually was. And so far, I had fallen off about a hundred times. I just couldn't seem to find my balance.

"You're too rigid," Van would say. Or, "Stop slouching, girls hate that." There was always something I was doing wrong, something I was screwing up. My nerves and demeanor became increasingly skittish around Lindsey, and other people in general. It was like no matter what I did, it would never be good enough.

By the time Friday night rolled around, I had missed a few good meals and hadn't had a full night's rest in two days. My skin turned an awful ashy color that reminded me of death, and I had to convince my parents that I hadn't gotten into a fist fight after school. Why I had to convince them of that was seriously beyond comprehension. Didn't they even know me at all?!

Ok, so maybe I was being slightly unfair to them. I had, after all, dumped my long time (and in their eyes, only) friend, hardly spoke or ate, and spent most nights locked in my bedroom compulsively obsessing over my homework. I used to get it all done in study hall then come home to chill out. Now I over analyzed every freaking thing. Darn you, Van.

My papers were covered in the scratched off, eraser flecked mutterings of a crazy person. Holes dotted every page. Tattered remnants of assignments were all I had left—the fibers soft and wispy from the many times I wrote down an answer, then erased it manically. You should have seen the looks on my parents faces as they shuffled through what was left of my "homework." It was comical, or would have been if they were giving that look to someone other than me.

"Honey," my mom placed her hand so gently on my shoulder that it could have just been her hair falling haphazardly onto me. "You had the answer right three times already, why did you keep erasing it?"

I couldn't look at her for long because I thought I might crack open and bleed all my anxiety and fear and insecurity onto her shoes. But for the short amount of time that I did look up at her I saw confusion, doubt, and worry—all paling the rich coffee tone of her eyes down to weak brewed tea.

"Maybe you should stay home tonight and rest," she suggested, scanning over my homework again.

"No!" I shrieked a little too quickly, and a drop too urgently.

Her gaze flashed back to my face in an instant. Crap! That was it, I was done for, grounded for life.

At that moment, she was probably imaging all sorts of dangerous mischief I was getting myself into, behind her and dad's backs. God dang it, if only I could have played it cool! Or had Van's gift. Yeah, that'd be handy. Then I could easily sweet talk my way out of whatever mess I just put myself in.

Please, oh please, God, let her be dumb just this once. "I-I think I just need to get away from this, clear my head, you know," I said, doing my best to smooth things over.

"Oh, I don't know, John," she considered, tipping her head to the side.

Holy crap, she's gonna say no! I can't stand Lindsey up on our first kind-of-date! She'd hate me forever! I had to tell my mom something or else she'd put her foot down and make me stay home! And sneaking out wasn't an option. I was too good, too pure for that crap. That and my bedroom was on the second floor. Can you say, broken femur?