Monty After Dark

Chapter 5

"Mello! She's coming," I blurted to Chris as we walked down the hall on the way to our lockers.

"Who's coming?" Sean asked, joining me as I threw my books in my locker.

"Chantelle. She's coming to the game today," I thought I might explode with nerves. I never get nervous like this over a girl. Never. Sluts at my school are a joke. All of us could have any girl we want.

"I'm gonna wheel her," Sean said, nudging my ribcage with his elbow. Sean wasn't on the lacrosse team, but he still came to our games if he didn't have soccer. Probably because half the girls in the school were there. But great. Last thing I need is that clown telling her Christ knows what.

"Dude, don't fuck this up for me. I've been putting in quality time like you wouldn't believe," I said in a serious voice. "I didn't even invite her to come, she offered after I said I wasn't sure if my dad was going to make it."

"Are you sure she's not trying to wheel your dad?" Chris said with a laugh. I glared at him. He looked away. "Your dad isn't coming, is he." It wasn't a question. I looked at my feet. The Carmellos and Frasers had been looking out for me for years. And Mrs. Murphy.

"She's bringing her camera," I said, trying to change the subject. "She wants to take my picture. Photo, she says. She wants to take my photo ... that's what photographers call them." Chris and Sean looked at me, looked at one another and burst out laughing.

"Monty, you're softer than baby shit in a microwave," Chris said. "You love this broad."

"Do not!" I said, tossing him into a locker. We tussled in the hallway, made our way to the caf for lunch.

Halfway through last period, I got the jitters. Me. The jitters. Over a fucking girl. Well. I don't care if she's 24. Whatever. I'm hot shit. If Chantelle can't figure that out, I'll just have to show her.

I could tell during warmup when she showed up. I heard the wailing guitar music, the exhaust of the Mustang. I tried not to look. I hoped she wasn't wearing anything distracting. I licked my lips nervously and fired a ball past our goalie.

"Don't sweat it, man," Chris said. She slugged her camera bag over her shoulder and walked towards the sideline. Sean was sitting on the bleachers.

"Hey, Chantelle," he called, waving her over. "I'm Monty's best friend. The boys call me Fraze." A bunch of the broads who came to watch us play glared at Chantelle. Lacrosstitutes, pucksluts, whatever sport we played, they had a nickname. Chantelle looked like a flower sprouting up amongst that pile of trash.

"Alright, boys," coach called us. I needed to get my head in the game. It was my first year playing varsity and I was eyeing the captain's spot for next season. Chan's just a girl.

The Grade 12s made up most of the starting lineup so when the game began, I was sitting on the bench.

During a stop in play, Chris and I both turned. Chantelle was fiddling with her camera, sitting on the edge of the bleachers. I guessed she must be going to work after since she was dressed completely in black.

"Are you sure she's your type?" Chris asked, watching as she bent down into her bag.

"Fuck off, Mello. You don't know my type," I replied. Why was I getting defensive? Like, sure, I mean

it's not like she looked like Sam or Amy/Andrea/Allison or whatever. But those girls suck. Literally. So she's a little chubby and not blonde, what's wrong with that?

The next stop in play, we had got the tap from coach and headed out onto the field. Chantelle was standing on the sideline with some massive lens on her camera. I looked away. There was this clown on the other team that I played hockey against that I hate.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I was looking for an open teammate to pass to. He slashed me across the shin and I muffed the pass.

"Don't worry, Matt, shake it off!" I heard Chantelle call from the sideline. Though my shin bone was throbbing, I smiled at her.

It was tied late in the fourth quarter, and coach had us all huddle up. I didn't notice as Chantelle made her way back to the Mustang. I had just settled back into my seat on the bench when I heard the exhaust as she peeled out. My heart fell like it was sinking.

We won the game, but I don't remember how I felt about it. I was confused. I was happy, I mean, at least someone came to watch me play. But it hurt like hell she had left before it was over. But at least she came, which is more than my dad did.

"Where's your girlfriend?" asked Sam as I walked back towards the school to the gym changeroom, muddy and sweaty. "Or wait, is she your mom?" A couple other girls behind her giggled. I turned around and gave her the worst look I'd ever given anyone. If looks could kill, that bitch would be dead.

"Don't you ever fucking say anything like that to me again. No. Just don't ever say anything to me ever again. Slut." I turned to leave and I heard Chris behind me.

"His mom left when he was five, you dumb bitch," Chris said. I felt a tiny bit better, knowing my best friend was there to stick up for me.

"Well, no wonder you've got Mommy issues," Sam said with a laugh.

I smashed the titanium shaft of my lacrosse stick against a locker.

"Settle down, Monteleone," coach said with a laugh as he came out of the boys change room. "It was just a regular season game. Save some of that for the playoffs."

"Sorry, coach," I muttered, flinging the door open. I felt disgusting after what Sam had said, I really just wanted to take a shower, wash it all off me.

"Don't listen to that skank," Chris said, dropping his gear on the floor. "But where'd your girl go,

anyway?"

"She takes photos of sports, so I think she was going to a Whitecaps game or something, not really sure," I replied. I felt distracted. I never thought about my mother. I never wondered where she was or what she might be like. I've survived the last decade without her just fine. And just because someone contributes half your genetic makeup doesn't automatically make that person a parent.

I went home, dad was asleep upstairs; I could hear him snoring. I made dinner alone and clicked on the TV, figured maybe I'd catch a peek of Chantelle at the soccer game. I don't even like soccer. The Whitecaps were losing, and with no sight of Chantelle, I turned off the TV and headed to the kitchen to clean up. Alone. It was strange, now that Mrs. Murphy had passed, I was my own parent. It was bad

enough being an only child, but then having no mom, an absentee dad and the only person who ever really took care of me was dead, it made me feel hollow inside. I didn't like it. So, while I was washing my dishes, I replayed the lacrosse game in my head. I reviewed all our plays in my head, trying to figure out where I had fucked up and how I could be better for our next game. Then I made a pot of coffee.

That's when my old man surfaced.

"You made me coffee?" he asked, grabbing the pot from the coffee maker and pouring himself a mugful. I rolled my eyes.

"No, it's for me, but thanks for leaving me some," I said in a sarcastic tone. I poured some into a mug, put about 8 spoonfuls of sugar in and walked toward the doorway.

"Did you win your game today?" my dad asked, flipping through this week's Sports Illustrated.

"I'm surprised you remembered I had one," I responded coldly. "Yes, we won. Chantelle was there." I added that last bit emphatically.

"I thought I told you not to bother her," my dad said in a gruff voice.

"I wasn't. I didn't even invite her. She offered to come, she wanted to be there," I said in a condescending tone I had never really used with him before. "Which is more than I can say for you." That was when I left the room. I didn't cause a scene or flee quickly, I simply turned and left.

"Matthew Monteleone, you get back here," my father roared. I acted like I didn't even notice and continued upstairs to my room, where I set the coffee down on my desk and promptly locked the door. I shut out the light and drank my coffee alone in the dark.