But anyway, good. That’s what I am. A good girl. A good sister.
Good. Good. Good.
Are you, Callie? Are you?
Are you really a good sister? Are you really cheering for your brother, Ledger, or are you also cheering forhim?
Oh my God.
Blasphemy.
I’m not cheering forhim. I would never ever cheer for him.
He’s the enemy.
Yes, he is.
He is. He is. Heis.
My agitated thoughts come to a halt when someone – a frazzled-looking girl – stumbles and almost falls on me. My arms automatically shoot up and clutch her shoulders to help keep her balance.
Even though I manage to save her from falling, the tub of popcorn in her arms tips and a flurry of kernels falls on my lap and my feet.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” she asks as she manages to straighten up.
“I’m fine,” I assure her, brushing popcorn off my dress. “Areyouokay though?”
“Yeah. No,” she replies, and clutching the huge tub of popcorn to her chest, she raises her finger in a gesture for me to wait. Looking back, she shouts at someone, “Asshole.” Then she sighs and plops down on the empty seat beside me. “Ugh. I hate this. He wouldn’t move his leg. Idiot.” She rolls her eyes before fixing her gaze on the field. “And I was so excited for the game tonight. Am I late? I’m late, aren’t I?”
“Maybe a little.” I shrug. “But nothing’s happened yet. It’s 0-0. It’s the day of the defenders. So, you’re good.”
She smiles. “Thanks.” Then she thrusts the tub of popcorn toward me. “Want some? I already spilled on you, so.”
“Sure, yeah. Thanks.” I pluck out a few and pop them in my mouth. “I’m Callie, by the way.”
“I’m Tempest. Nice to meet you.” Her smile is bright and friendly. “So I’m assuming you go to school here?”
“Yup.” I nod. “And I’m assuming you don’t?”
There’s something familiar about her. I can’t put my finger on exactly what though. But I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen her before.
She shakes her head at my question. “Nope, I’m just crashing the party. I go to school in New York.”
“New York? That’s exciting.”
“Meh. I completely hate it there. I miss home too much.” She shrugs. “But anyway, I wanted to be here for the game. I’m supporting someone. He’s gonna completely freak when he sees me. He has no idea that I’m here. You? Are you supporting someone too?”
“Oh yeah. I’m…”
My words get swallowed up when she bends to set down the container of popcorn.
Because I understand who she’s talking about. Who’s going to completely freak when he sees her.
It’s written in the back of the t-shirt, or rather soccer jersey – in school colors, green and white – that she has on. The name and the number.
In bold black letters, Jackson, 11.
She’s here for him.
