Team Spirit

8. Lars is Off the Market

8. Lars is Off the Market

We walk. It's thinly disguised pacing, this walk through the backfields of Murphy Comp, but Sam hasn't noticed that yet.

I need to see Sam properly while he's not distracted by driving or other people. I need to see Pure Sam while his hands are clammy and he can barely speak.

Consequences roll through my mind. They may be significantly better than the consequences of, say, Zach walking into Leo and Sam kissing, but there are still repercussions to think about.

"Sam, are you okay?" He only looks straight ahead, like he's undead, but propelled forward.

"Yeah. Actually, I feel better. I wish I told you sooner." Finally, he turns to smile. His braces flash and that's the surest sign that he means it, not just as something to stop me from worrying about him. A forced smile never shows his teeth. He thinks about it too much and remembers he's self-conscious about the metal in his mouth.

My heart melts a little, reminding me I still have one in the first place.

"You know we can't just pretend that never happened, right?" It won't just go away, not if Zach knows. Sam's solution will pool into a different problem.

"Then, we don't. I mean, you're not dating anyone so would it hurt to just... play along? If anybody hears about it. It's supposed to be a secret." Sam stops, giving my big, brown puppy eyes. Ugh. The puppy eyes.

Sam's always had a sweet, very boy-next-door face. Every once in awhile, usually after insisting that we have always been just friends, I think about what it would actually be like to be more than friends. Sam, soft about a lot of things, but very hardy and stable. Sensitive, but low maintenance.

I don't even mind that all he wears are jeans, cowboy boots, a white t-shirt, and a camouflage ball cap. It may be without variation, but it's his style. He knows what he likes and I can respect that.

Of course, we never had the right chemistry and now I know why.

"You want me to be your fake girlfriend?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Would it be that bad?" Sam shrinks back like he's just now realized exactly what he's asking, that he's asked anything that all.

He wouldn't even think about it if it wasn't important. Sam asks favours of no one, ever.

Honestly... it wouldn't be the worst. I don't want to invest the time in a proper boyfriend right now. I don't want to be dodging secret admirers either. Would it be terrible for Sam to take me off the market without the complete emotional commitment?

No. Not it would not be.

"I guess not." I frown. "Will this involve more kissing? Because you were not convincing back there."

Sam makes a face.

"Are you going to continue to wear leather pants?"

Before I can stop myself, I look over my outfit, bottom to top. They're not actually leather, but I highly doubt the specifics matter to Sam. I also doubt he agrees they look great with this sweater.

"Probably."

"Then there'll be no kissing."

The laugh bubbles before I can stop myself.

"If you weren't insulting me, I'd be kind of proud of you for that." It's almost a shame for me to ruin him with my influence.

He becomes small again, shrinking out of the person I know he can be.

"I should get home... Dad's probably out mowing hay right now..."

We wander back toward the school parking lot and I'm not sure if my guilt is sympathetic or it's over the fact Sam genuinely wants to get home to help with chores that include preparing grass to become over a thousand hay bales and I won't even watch Oli for a couple hours without argument.

Maybe I surround myself with glowing good examples just to prove how bad I am.

If I can't be good at being good, I'll be phenomenal at being bad.

Aside from a bunch of teachers' cars, Sam's Jimmy and my—Billy's—Grand Am are the only cars left in the parking lot. The boys volleyball team cleared out.

"What's Leo going to say?" I ask, leaning against Sam's truck.

Sam sighs. "I don't know yet."

He rubs his face in such a way I can't imagine Leo not forgiving him. He panicked. Sam isn't exactly known for performing well under pressure if that pressure isn't an 8 second timer.

Sam drives off to his responsibilities, to fulfill certain expectations of being the youngest kid in a farm family. It leaves me to wallow in mine. I only came to the school to drop Oli off with Mom so I wouldn't be stuck with him.

That's not the best way to put it. I'm the middle child. Someone was stuck with me once upon a time.

The heavy gravity of guilt drags me back into the foyer and into the front office.

Mom's still at her desk, Oli sitting on her lap bopping at a bobblehead next to her computer.

"Still have work to do?" I wonder what the hell she does, actually, when she stays late. Maybe it's just to be a presence in the school before the teachers have all left.

I've never bothered to ask.

"Oh, I thought you left," Mom looks up. "Only a little bit longer."

"Me and Oli could go to the park," I offer and my voice doesn't sound like my own. What comes out of me is more awkward. Too much like my brother, except Billy's the opposite. He floundered around strangers but could manage every member of our family effortlessly.

"To swing?"

"Yeah, Ol. We can swing."

He makes the decision before Mom answers, jumping off her to run around the desk.

٭٭٭٭٭

Oli pumps his little legs on the swing, determined to fly.

Why wouldn't he? Billy filled Oli's head full of aviation dreams, telling him bedtime stories of Amelia Earhart and the Wright brothers. What kid wouldn't want to fly after that?

I pull my legs up on the park bench, settling my sketchbook over my knee. I need dresses to float through my head, but the page fills up instead with phases of the moon, trying to remember a little girl who wanted to go to space more than anything because her big brother went through a NASA phase.

LARS, Launch and Recovery System, assisting in space shuttle launch operations.

It's a lot easier to explain that Lars is only short for Laura.

I catch myself in the blank stare into space and twist my pencil in my fingers.

There's only so long I can procrastinate on sketching something up for Crystal, thinking up ideas before she finds me again between cake tastings and ring sizings.

Maybe using some of that fabric I've been playing with, the dip dyed strips. Something like a dress made of streamers of blues and lace and something country flavoured. All her bridesmaids will wear them with boots. I don't even need to talk to Crystal to know that. I already know Sam and Pete will wear cowboy boots because that's what they consider formal—putting on their good boots and jeans.