The Whisper Seekers

Powder Puff

There are about twenty-five girls from each class huddled on the field by the time I make it down there. Harper stands in the center with her hip popped, oozing confidence like this is her show. Normally, the junior class plays the senior class, but this year the rules changed—seniors got to draft teams however they wanted. And because this is really Harper vs. Ellie, we've been named team captains.

We got our powder puff jerseys last night and picked clever nicknames to plaster on the back. Last year, Harper was Peanut, I was Butter, and Lily was Jelly. But this year, I don't have a matching duo. So I went solo with The Ellie-minator.

Harper and I meet up with Mr. Helm at the 50-yard line, where he stands beside a box of neon bandanas. I grab the pink ones. She grabs green.

All the girls line up at the edge of the field, buzzing with anticipation. Harper and I take our places front and center, with Mr. Helm standing like a referee between us. He flips a coin, and I win the toss.

"Lily," I say immediately.

Harper's eyes narrow. Her smile disappears as she fires back, "Micah." Micah's a beast—one of our most intimidating volleyball players with linebacker energy. I know this is going to be a war.

We go back and forth like this, picking one player at a time, girls jogging to their sides as they're chosen. For each girl, Mr. Helm hands out a colored flag belt and a matching bandana so everyone knows whose side they're on.

By the end, both teams are assembled, decked out in neon and ready to destroy. 

We split across the grass and start running through plays and strategies while students begin to crowd the edges of the field. The energy is building fast. Everyone's here for drama disguised as school spirit.

I spot Liam standing with the same guys from the assembly, and when he cups his hands to shout, "Let's go, Ellie!" it's loud enough for the whole field to hear. I don't have to look to know Harper's glaring; I feel the daggers hitting my back.

Each team huddles up to choose a name. We land on The Bodacious Blitzers, equal parts ridiculous and amazing, while Harper's group proudly announces themselves as The End Zone Divas. Fitting.

Harper and I are called to the center of the field. The tension between us is thick enough to trip over. We're told to shake hands, but Harper just gives me a tight-lipped grimace instead.

Mr. Helm reminds us that since I won the first coin toss, Harper gets the ball to start. 

We return to our sidelines. I tighten my ponytail and try to breathe. 

We all hear the whistle blow.

Game on.

Flags fly from belts like confetti, and by the end of the first quarter, neither team has scored. We're panting, dripping sweat under the relentless sun, and four of my girls are already streaked with grass stains across their knees and elbows.

Harper takes every opportunity to knock into me, accidentally, of course. Once, she full-on yanks my ponytail during a play, earning herself a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct. She doesn't even look sorry. I don't know whether to be furious or impressed by her dedication to vengeance.

In the second quarter, we finally break through. Lily zips past their defense and tosses it to Caitlin in the end zone. She catches it clean, and our sideline erupts. Caitlin, hyped on adrenaline, spikes the football into the ground in celebration. Only, the ball bounces off the turf like a rubber bullet and smacks one of Harper's teammates straight in the face. The girl clutches her nose as blood gushes out. The crowd gasps.