Page 19 of The Rebel of Raleigh High
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SILVER
I’msure he can’t see me, but I feel the need to duck down behind the bleachers all the same. Pathetic, really. Technically, the fact that I’m here, watching Alex try out for the football team is not my fault. I can’t help it if I just so happened to decide to eat my lunch here today…
This should be the last place I’d want to come, really, what with this being Jacob’s territory, but the team is rarely out here during lunch. On the odd occasion Coach has them out here running drills, I make sure I’m far, far away, usually in the library, or taking refuge in my car. Today, I figured I would risk an unwelcome encounter in the hopes that I could watch what goes down with New Guy.
I keep calling him that in my head, hoping the tactic will force some mental space between Alex and me, but so far it hasn’t been all that successful.
I don’t even know why I care about him. Yeah, he’s attractive, but before, when I was hanging out with Kacey and the girls, I would have screwed up my nose at him, deeming him too low on the social food chain to warrant my attention. The tattoos alone would have had me hugging the opposite walls of the hallways whenever he was around, purely so the other girls wouldn’t have thought I was interested in any way. There was a lot of that kind of stuff before—me acting in particular ways, to make sure I was always seen in a particular light by Kacey and the Sirens. Mostly Kacey.
But now…it’s almost freeing in a way, my exile from the glory of Kacey Winters’ good graces. I find that I’m learning more and more about myself every day, now that I’m no longer trying to be her. And it turns out, for better or for worse, that I’m reluctantly attracted to the hostile bastard that’s currently sprinting back and forth up and down the length of the football field.
I unwrap the sub I made myself this morning and take a bite. I relish the burn of the hot sauce I slathered all over the sandwich, enjoying the reaction in my mouth as Coach halts Alex and sets him to linemen drills, getting him to alternate between hitting and blocking on the padded blocking sled he’s set up on the field. Alex doesn’t even break a sweat. Correction: Alex does break a sweat. A large, dark patch forms in the red material of his t-shirt, right between his shoulder blades, and I find myself transfixed by the idea that he would fall prey to such a regular, normal physical response; it feels as though he should be exempt from all mundane, everyday bodily functions.
What I mean to say is that he makes every single challenge Coach Quentin throws his way look easy. Far too easy. He’s going to ace this tryout, and then he’s going to be on the fucking football team. Alex may have made a show of being disagreeable with Jacob this morning, but there’s no way he can join the football team and not be in Jake’s back pocket. Literally no way. Jake’s father paid for the damn college-level field Alex is standing on right now. Mr. Weaving also pays for a team nutritionist, a sport’s physiotherapist, and a masseuse for the players before especially big, critical games. Darhower would never allow anything to jeopardize that. Alex could be the best football player in the world, and he would still be booted from the team if Jake decreed it so.
I look down, finding to my surprise that my sub is gone. I’ve eaten every last bite without registering it, as I’ve followed Alex’s form up and down the field. My cold brew coffee’s vanished, too. Should have paid more attention. The cold brew’s usually my favorite part of lunch, and now I’m just sitting here with the sour, metallic taste of unease in my mouth. Justified, it seems, when Coach Quentin reaches out to shake Alex’s hand. If I needed a sign that this was a done deal, then the handshake is it.
Coach Quentin gives Alex several papers—probably the team practice schedule and their calendar of preliminary games—then he stalks off the field, leaving Alex standing there, staring down at the papers with a bewildered, unhappy look on his face that I find instantly confusing. He was determined to gain extra credit. Like, determined. A guy like him, on his last warning before jail? There’s a reason why he needs that extra credit, and it’s an important one. I would have thought making it onto the team would have made him happy, but the look on his face is far from it as he clenches his hand around the papers and he slowly makes his way back toward the locker rooms.
It’s lucky that I made him put his cell number into my phone earlier in the bathroom. I’m going to need to give him the bad news. It doesn’t matter if I’m attracted to him or not: if he’s going to wind up being just another one of Jacob’s puppets, then I won’t be teaching him guitar. I doubt he’ll lose a moment’s peace over it, but I also won’t be associating myself with him again. Whatever brief acquaintanceship was forged between us during our two, equally brief encounters just fizzled out and died an irreparable death. I, Silver Parisi, will never be speaking to Alessandro Moretti again.
