Two Years Ago
Homecoming gamesat BSU are a far cry from the ones back home. Here, the energy crackles throughout the entire stadium. Noise levels are at an all-time high. It’s surprising, really. The football team is nowhere near as stellar as those at the other nearby colleges. Yet, everyone has shown up tonight.
“Holy snickers!” Gerard exclaims as we climb the concrete steps. “Can you feel that, dudes? The excitement, the team spirit, the?—”
“Fact you look like a demented Smurf?” Kyle interrupts.
I have to agree with him on this one. Gerard’s face is painted half in navy blue, half in white. It’s split perfectly down the middle, turning him into some kind of Berkeley Shore Two-Face.
“I’ll have you know that this took me three hours.” Gerard puffs out his chest proudly. The movement makes his BSU jersey ride up, revealing a strip of painted skin at his waist.
Wait. Is his entire torso painted too?
Gerard grins maniacally, which means we’re about to witness something spectacular or horrifying. Knowing Gerard, it’s going to be both. He stops right there on the stairs, causing a traffic jam of annoyed students behind us. Before anyone can stop him, he yanks up his jersey to reveal his entire beefy chest painted in the same split pattern as his face. Even his nipples have gotten in on the action.
“Jesus Christ.” I shake my head, but I’m laughing too. “You’re certifiable, G-man.”
“That’s not even the best part,” Gerard says, waggling his eyebrows.
Kyle narrows his eyes. “What do you mean that’s not the—Gerard, no. Tell me you didn’t paint your?—”
“My entire body!” Gerard announces proudly, emulating Michael Buffer. “I am a walking, talking model of school spirit!” Then, because he has zero shame, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants. “Want to see?”
“No!” we all shout in unison. But Gerard’s already spinning around and yanking down his pants and boxers to moon the entire section of bleachers.
And there it is. His left ass cheek is painted blue; his right is painted white. It’s the world’s most disturbing yin-yang symbol.
“I did it all myself!” Gerard declares over his shoulder. “Had to use two mirrors and fold myself into some creative yoga positions, but I managed!”
The crowd behind us has gone from annoyed to amused, with several people pulling out their phones to capture the moment for posterity. Someone wolf-whistles. A girl shouts, “Go Barracudas!”
“Pull your pants up before security arrests you,” Oliver hisses, though he’s fighting a smile, same as the rest of us.
Gerard complies, turning back around with the satisfied expression of someone who has finally shared their magnum opus with the world. “Total dedication.”
“Total insanity,” Kyle corrects, but even he appears impressed.
We finally make it to our seats near the top of the bleachers, and the view from up here is breathtaking. Fifty yards of emerald stretches below us, white chalk lines razor-sharp against the grass. The brass section of Berkeley Shore’s band catches the floodlights, sending gold flashes into my eyes with each sway. A tuba player stumbles slightly, while the drumline’s synchronized arms rise and fall in perfect unison. The fight song’s familiar notes hit me in the chest before they reach my ears. A saxophone wails, and a chill runs up my spine. I’ve always loved a good sax solo.
“This is amazing,” I breathe, taking it all in.
The bleachers themselves are packed to the brim. There are other people with painted faces, though I doubt they went as far as to give their asses the same treatment. A foam fingergets passed around. Homemade signs wave in the air. One says, “Monroe throws touchdowns and steals hearts,” with little hearts drawn around it.
“Who’s Monroe?” I ask, nudging Oliver.
“Jackson Monroe. The new quarterback. Apparently, he has a killer arm. Why he chose BSU is anyone’s guess.” Oliver pulls out a Snickers bar and offers it to me. I shake my head no, and he shrugs, unwrapping it and shoving it into his mouth. “Kyle, you follow football more than I do. What’s Monroe’s deal?”
Kyle shrugs. “From what I’ve read, he makes smart plays and can chuck the ball deep. Girls go crazy for him because he’s a golden retriever in human form.”
“I’ve heard some guys go crazy for him too,” Gerard adds with a wink.
The marching band reaches its crescendo. The drums pound out a rhythm that shakes the the bleachers. Fleetingly, I wonder how structurally sound everything is. But then the band forms the letters BSU on the field, and I join everyone in applauding.
“Here they come!” someone screams from the row in front of us.
The crowd rises to its feet as one organism, and I’m swept up in the wave. The air fills with static electricity, crackling around us and threatening to explode. The cheerleaders sprint onto the field, holding up a massive paper banner that reads “BSU Football.”
A disembodied announcer’s voice booms out of the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Please put your hands together for the BSU Barracudas!”
