“Sorry, Coach.”
He stared me down for a second—despite being a few inches shorter than me—and then disappeared back into the nebula of dancing bodies.
Landon started laughing.
“How did he do that?”
“Coach Winfield has it out for me.”
“Well. You’d better behave, then.”
“I’ll try.”
When the heat from so many people packed together started getting to me, I led Landon off the floor to rehydrate. The drinks table was a mess, though, so I pulled him out to the hall. As soon as the gym doors closed behind us, the wall of noise pressing against us fell away, except for the bass hum that reverberated through the soles of my shoes.
I dabbed the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I can think again.”
“I can breathe again,” Landon said. “I think some of your classmates forgot their deodorant.”
“That’s a recurring nightmare of mine. Forgetting my own deodorant.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I just don’t ever want to be that guy who smells bad.”
“You always smell nice.”
“Thanks.” I wound my fingers through his and led him down the hall toward the bathrooms where I’d run into Trent Bolger earlier. There was no wait for the water fountain.
Landon drank his fill, and then stood aside for me.
Once again, I wished Chapel Hill High School used paper towels, because that would have been great for wiping off my sweaty brow.
The hallway walls were lined with pictures of Chapel Hill High School’s student athletes. Closest to the Main Gym was the varsity football team; and next to that, above the restrooms, the JV team. Landon nodded at the row of photos.
“You got a picture up somewhere?”
“Down the Art hall.”
“Show me?”
I led Landon back past the gym toward the Art hall. The fluorescent lights were off, except for a few intermittent panels that were always on at night. Our dress shoes sounded like hooves clop-clop-clopping on the tiles.
As we neared the corner, the photos changed from the varsity wrestling team (where a photo of Chip in his red-and-blacksinglet from last year still hung on the wall), to the JV wrestling team, and finally to the varsity men’s soccer team.
Go Chargers.
Here’s the thing: I don’t photograph well. I think it’s genetic.
Iranians always frown in photos.
(As a Fractional Persian, I only looked constipated, but still.)
I was wearing my jersey and had my arms crossed in front of my chest: the Standard Student Athlete Pose. We took the photo the first week of school, before I got my hair cut, so my former halo of black curls framed my face.
“Your hair was so cute.”
“Yeah? Maybe I should grow it out again.”
