Page 3 of Most Valuable Player
He blinks a few times. “Um.”
“Sexy,” I say impatiently.
“Yes, I heard that part.”
“Is that why you turned me down?”
“No,” he says.
“So Iamsexy?” I demand.
Before Mason can confirm, Anup Kumar, wide receiver, glides into the conversation like a lubricated dildo. He folds one massive arm around Mason’s skinny shoulders and gives him an affectionate squeeze, his shaggy black curls restrained by a bandanna. “Is this guy bothering you, babe?” he asks sternly.
“I’m very bothered!” I snap. “Ask Mason why he hates me!”
“You’re out of your damn mind if you think I was talking to you, Cam.”
“Are you bullying our precious assistant, Morelli?” Jody Jackson, punter and pastiest blond man alive, sidles up to Mason and fondly pats his beanie. “Leave Mason alone. Can’t blame him for not wanting to date your ugly ass.”
“Ugly?” I shriek.
Mason shakes his head in earnest, though his perfect level face isn’t giving anything away. “Cameron is attractive, sure, but—”
“You’re dating a sexy college girl?” Anup asks.
Mason’s snowy-white cheeks start to redden, and he lifts his hand self-consciously over his mouth, like he’s concealing inaudible laughter. “I’m single.”
A direct punch to my throat. So being single is better than being with me. Got it.
“That’s not it,” Mason says in exasperation, and maybe Darius is right about the wholetalking out loudthing. “It’s nothing to do with your looks.”
“So it’s his fuck-ass piece-of-shit personality,” Anup figures.
“The personality doesn’t help,” Mason says, kicking me directly in my esophagus.
“Or you’re straight,” Jody suggests.
“I’m not,” Mason says, cleaving my chest open.
“So itisthe fuck-ass piece-of-shit personality.” Anup gives Mason a hearty smooch atop his beanie, oblivious to the critical hits I’m suffering. “It’s okay, baby. I expect he only wants you for your brain cells, anyway.”
Unfortunately, Mason doesn’t get the chance to defend my intelligence. Coach Barnett notices the congregating mass and blows his whistle, shattering the sound barrier. “Morelli! Kumar! Jackson! On the field!” he yells, and so we sprint away to complete our high knee jogging, side lunges, and assorted tortures. All the while, I can only contemplate my place in the universe.
Why did Mason Gray reject me?
There’s this uncomfortable nagging in my chest. Cam Morelli is supposed to be…well, perfect. He’s well-liked by everyone, a shining star among a dome of murky darkness. I’ve put years of work into thisface, this body, this personality, to solidify my position as one of the most respected seniors in school. Everyone knows my name because I’ve hand-carved a positive reputation for myself.
Why doesn’t it work on Mason?
My skin feels prickly. I can’t remember the last time I asked somebody out—usually, people are propositioning me every month, and I go along with it for a few weeks until we break up. I don’t care about the connotation that comes with it. It’s better that I’m too romantically active than otherwise, and it’s better that the negativity is based around my number of partners rather than the queer thing. I tested the waters and “came out” last year by dating one of the JV lacrosse guys, and thankfully people seemed more gossipy about the fact that he was the fifth person I had dated in three months than the fact that he was a guy.
Every popular person in school has at least one negative feature attached to them, whether true or false. It’s better that I can control what that feature is—in this case, being hard to tie down.
I was shit out of luck in middle school. It’s better this way.
Is that connotation the only reason Mason isn’t interested in me, or is it something else?
Eventually, people begin to flood the stands—students dressed in Elwood High merch, faculty members, and parents. Not mine, though. Today is the first game they’re missing because they’re busy swapping saliva over a dinner table for “date night.” The sun melts into the horizon, bathing the sky in a crisp October orange despite the lingering September date, and the other team arrives to warm up beneath the looming scoreboard. I’m still heated.
