Whistleblower ✓

02 | elevator bitch

Bodie St. James was a big guy.

He didn't look like the puppy dog his friends described him as. He looked like some kind of primordial warrior who could snap my arm in half with his bare hands.

Of course, I'd just tried to close the doors in his face, so maybe I was projecting.

"Are you going down?" Bodie repeated when all I did was stare at him.

His short, dark hair was dripping onto the wide shoulders of a matte black Nike jacket with a metallic Garland Lions logo on the right breast. The school bought the football team new ones every season. This year's model appeared to be waterproof.

I nodded and said, "Basement."

He's so tall up close, was the only coherent thought my brain seemed capable of composing as he stepped into the elevator.

Then the doors slid shut, and I was alone with the boy who a lot of people in town were convinced was going to singlehandedly lead Garland to the NCAA championships this year. A part of me wanted desperately to apologize—to explain myself, and why I was in such a rush. But Bodie St. James was, to quote the ESPN special feature that had aired the year before, one of the most promising young players that'd ever come out of California.

I couldn't imagine what I'd say to him.

So the two of us stood in silence as the elevator began its descent towards the basement. The agonizing quiet seemed to drag on for a small eternity, but likely only lasted about four full seconds.

And then, abruptly, Bodie spoke.

"This weather's pretty rough, huh?"

It took me a moment to accept that I was the only person he could possibly be talking to, and that I should therefore look up from my phone and acknowledge him.

Then what he'd said finally registered.

Oh my god, I thought. He's making small talk.

I'd never been very comfortable bearing the weight of someone's full attention, but making eye contact with Bodie made my stomach twist in a way it hadn't since I'd been forced to take the stage at my third grade talent show.

I couldn't find any malice in his stare, though, so I figured this wasn't some kind of trick question.

"Yeah," I said. "It's, um, pretty bad."

The corner of Bodie's mouth twitched.

It was the only indication that he'd noticed I wasn't equipped to steer our conversation anywhere interesting.

I busied myself with reshuffling the crumpled sheets of my article.

"You a writer?" Bodie pressed on.

I lifted my head and blinked at him. As if in response, Bodie lifted a hand up and plastered his wet hair back from his forehead, so some of his bangs stuck straight up into the air.

I would've snorted if I hadn't felt so off-kilter.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

Bodie shifted his weight between his feet restlessly, then nodded towards the papers clutched in my hands. His bangs bobbed.

"Oh," I said, then laughed tightly. "Only on a deadline."

Maybe he was just indulging me, but Bodie smiled. He had a sharp, sullen face—high cheekbones, square jaw, full lips—but when he smiled, he looked softer. It was a boyish smile. An honest smile.