Page 62 of The Rebel
“Okay! Shhhhhh, shhhhh,” I hushed, demanding some reverence for the game with a glare at everyone. This was the very reason I hadn’t wanted Mom to do an English breakfast because you can bet Lucy and Victoria would have talked their way through the whole game.
Valencia immediately stopped laughing, putting her finger up to her lips. She might’ve been mocking me, but I appreciated her respect. And though I hated to miss even a second of the game, I liked that we were all sitting together. Valencia sat with the pillow on her lap and I noticed she wrapped the scarf around her neck. And she cheered with us when Man City scored the first goal, handing the pillow to Oliver.
At half time, she went to her room and came back dressed in black ripped jeans and a pretty horrible gothic t-shirt, but I was impressed that she kept the scarf around her neck. Jumping up, I dashed to my room, rummaging through my drawers for a shirt she could wear. It was from two seasons ago, when I was a size smaller so I hoped it wouldn’t swamp her. The sponsor logo was different from the latest version that Ollie and I were wearing.
“Try this,” I said, handing it to her. She seemed surprised and held it up. “It should fit. It’s actually compulsory to wear when you’re watching.”
“Oh,” she said, pulling it over her head. “So why didn’t you bring it out before? You let me sit here for half a game without one?”
“I was testing your loyalty,” I said.
“I passed?”
“With flying colors,” I said, “you groaned when Chelsea equalized.”
“How’s it look?” Valencia asked, pulling on the sides.
“A whole lot better than that grunge t-shirt underneath,” I said.
Valencia arched an eyebrow. “You don’t like my clothes?”
“I prefer you in that,” I said, nodding to the light blue jersey.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and Mom chimed in, “And yes, Valencia, you’d be right to guess that he’s unbearable when Man City lose a game.”
“Well, let’s hope we score again in this half,” Valencia said, folding her legs beneath her and looking down at the jersey. “Ollie, you better bring us some good luck!”
I edged a little closer from my corner of the couch, moving into the realm of her now familiar fruity fragrance. And when we (and bywe,I mean Man City) scored again, we all celebrated with high fives and pumped fists and Ollie gave me the pillow, and I might have taken the opportunity to shift a little closer to Valencia, plopping it between us.
Buzzing after the 2-1 victory, I called Weston, a Tottenham supporter, to have an analysis of the game and to discuss the other results and the table position. That’s when I missed Dad—and Pops—we’d thoroughly dissect every facet of play and every player’s performance.
I found Mom out in the greenhouse. The place was bare, nothing growing and hadn’t for the past year.
“Thought I’d get this up and running again, spring isn’t far away,” she said, sorting through planters and pots.
“Cool,” I said. “But don’t bother with that kale stuff. It’s disgusting.”
“It happens to be very good for you,” Mom said with a laugh, “and easy to grow. You doing anything?”
“I might do a workout,” I said, “why? You need me to do something?”
Mom shook her head. “No, I was just wondering. I’m taking Ollie swimming later. We’re meeting Trina and Tyson.”
“Cool,” I said again, clearing my throat, a now-or-never moment presenting itself. I cleared it again, this time for attention.
Mom frowned, but before she could ask if I had a cold, I blurted out, “It’s Dad’s birthday coming up.”
Mom’s eyebrows rose and fell, and I saw a wave of sadness sweep through her eyes, instantly misting over. Her lips pressed tightly and she nodded.
“Should we do something?”
She blinked the moisture away. “Yes, of course, we can have a special dinner and visit the cemetery,” she said, producing a smile. “Maybe his favorite...”
But I cut her off, hating myself, but needing to say it. “I meant with Gramma and Pops. Invite them over?”
Mom sniffed and she fully closed her eyes. “No,” she whispered.
“But Mom...”
