Heart on a Chain, Page 6

  Chapter Seven

  He doesn’t mention the football game again the rest of the week. Part of me hopes he’s forgotten about it and won’t ask me again, forcing me to tell him no if he does.

  A bigger part of me is dismayed at the thought that he’s forgotten, or regrets asking me, and that he won’t ask again.

  He drives me home on Friday. Every day he has shown up in the morning. Sometimes we ride in his car, other times we walk. I like the walking better because it takes longer to get to school. Alone with him I can be myself and talk freely—or as freely as I can for someone full of secrets.

  I’m tense on Friday, filled with dread over whether he’ll ask again or not. He doesn’t say anything about it on the whole ride home, granted the drive doesn’t take all that long. So it’s with both relief and disappointment that I say goodbye as soon as he opens my door and I climb out of the car.

  “Wait,” he says, grabbing my forearm lightly. “Did you think about the game? Will you come?”

  I can’t. Those are the words in my head, the ones I intend to say. Instead I hear myself say, “Okay.”

  What?

  His face echoes the stun in my head, but he recovers quickly.

  “Cool. Should I pick you up at your house or…”

  “I’ll meet you here.” Not sure how I’m going to accomplish that. My throat closes with fear.

  “Okay. How about six-thirty?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak, walking quickly away instead of waiting for him to drive off like I usually do. I hurry home, wanting to finish my chores as quickly and efficiently as possible to hopefully avoid Mom’s wrath. I feel like I might throw up from the tightness that seizes me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’m praying for something like a miracle to pull this off.

  When I get home, it’s to find Mom showering. This throws me since she never showers in the afternoon. It’s rare she showers in the morning but it’s never occurred in the afternoon.

  I stand in the kitchen, unsure of what to make of this.

  “Kate?” she calls a few minutes later from her bedroom. At least she’s calling me “Kate” instead of “Kathryn.” When she calls me by my full name, it never ends well.

  With trepidation, I approach her bedroom door. I knock softly, and she calls for me to come in. I stare at the door with terror. I’m never allowed even near her bedroom, let alone within. My hand is on the doorknob, afraid to turn it, afraid not to.

  “Kathryn, get in here,” she demands.

  I open the door, but stay on the threshold.

  “There you are.” She stands in front of her closet, dressed only in underwear and a bra. I look around, wondering if I’ve stepped into some twisted version of the real world.

  “I need your help. I’ve gotta get ready for dinner.” Like this is a usual request.

  “Dinner?” my voice is a strangled whisper.

  “Yes, dinner.” You idiot, is the clearly unspoken rest of that sentence. “You know what that is, right? Food you eat in the evening, after lunch, before bedtime.” Her voice is derisive.

  I’ve heard of that, yes, I just usually don’t get to have that myself. I imagine the consequences of speaking that sentence aloud. Instead, I say, “What can I do to help?”

  “Your dad’s boss is having some fancy shindig that the wives are required to show up for. You need to help me get dressed and fix my hair.”

  I wonder if she’s suddenly speaking a foreign language, because her words make no sense to me. When I just stand there, she throws me a dirty look.

  “Don’t just stand there like an imbecile. Get in here.”

  I step hesitantly into the forbidden realm, trying not to look around, though I can’t help it somewhat. Dirty laundry and paper clutter the room. Well, I think, if you don’t let Cinderella into the castle, she can’t clean it up for you.

  She puts on a button-up blouse with a wraparound skirt, which I help her tie. She sits while I use the blow dryer to dry her hair. She wants me to put hot rollers in for her, but the close contact with her makes me a nervous wreck, and I keep dropping them. Finally she swats my hands away.

  “You’re useless,” she tells me. “Go…clean the kitchen or something. Try to make yourself useful.”

  I don’t wait to see if she’s going to change her mind, having been handed this reprieve. I go to do what she commands, cleaning quickly but thoroughly so that she won’t be able to find immediate fault.

  When my dad pulls into the driveway, my stomach begins convulsing again. He hasn’t been home this early for as long as I can remember. For the most part, it feels as if no one lives here but my mother and me.

  He comes in, glancing at me but ignoring me as completely as if I were invisible. I hear the shower come on again and a few minutes later they both emerge from their room, looking for all the world like any other married couple going out to dinner. I’m sure my mouth is hanging open.

  “Finish up your chores, then go to bed,” is all the instruction or information I get as they walk out the front door. I walk into the living room, watching them through the window as they climb into dad’s beat up old car and pull out of the driveway. It’s not until they pull away that I realize what this means for me.

  I’m going to a football game.

  I finish my chores in record time. There isn’t much I can do about myself besides run a brush through my hair, and pull the least trashed shirt that I have out of the five that I do own. Afraid they’ll come back early and stop me, I run down the street and around the corner—and nearly barrel Henry over.

  He catches me by the arms, taking the weight of us both against a telephone pole, managing to keep us from sprawling on the sidewalk. Embarrassment floods me as he sets me back from him.

  “In a hurry?” he asks with a grin.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be here yet.”

  Confusion flits across his features.

  “Then why the hurry? Were you trying to come and go before I arrived?”

  Surprised at the way his mind works, that he would think I would be trying to avoid him, I shake my head.

  “Of course not. It would have been nice to be the first one here, though. No matter how early I leave my house, you always beat me here.” Not a lie, just a different truth.

  He laughs. “Sorry. It must seem like I’m some weird stalker or something, just sitting here waiting for you to happen by.”

  I shrug. “I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice to have someone waiting for me.”

  He cocks his head, dark eyes intense.

  “Well, those who aren’t waiting for you don’t know what they’re missing.”

  My breath catches in my throat. It almost sounds like he’s flirting. I shake my head and give a (nearly) silent guffaw; that’s foolish. He’s just being his usual gentlemanly self as his mother taught him, the same as when he carries my books or tray, pulls out my chair at lunch, opens my car door. His steady gaze hasn’t softened, watching me as if expecting something, a response or reaction. I have none because I don’t know how to respond to this kind of teasing.

  “So,” I say, sweeping my hand toward the car, averting my eyes from his, “are you going to open my door or do I have to do it myself and tell your mom on you?”

  He chuckles, the spell broken, striding over to the car. He opens the door, bows with a flourish and sweeps his hand toward the car. I smile shyly as I pass him.

  We arrive at the high school well before the game starts, but the parking lot is already crawling with students. There are students here not only from our school but also from Jefferson. There’s a lot of good natured taunting going on, but the police officers walking around give the impression that it could turn into more. Henry comes around and opens my door, of course, calling greetings to some of his friends. I recognize a few who sit with us at lunch, and I wave back, surprised, when they call out a hello to me.

  We head toward the entrance to the field. I see a couple of the gi
rls who are on the Spirit Squad sitting at a table, checking student ID’s or taking money for tickets. They both gape when they see me walking up to the table. Their eyes nearly bug out of their heads when Henry grabs my hand, twining his fingers with mine and pulling me to him, making it obvious that I’m with him.

  “Hey Celia, Amber. How you guys doing?” Henry says. I might have smiled as I watch Celia pull off two tickets and hand them to Henry without asking for his student ID, her eyes darting back and forth between us, except that I’m beginning to feel like this is a mistake; I should have stayed away as I always have. A cold pit forms in my stomach.

  Henry doesn’t let go of my hand, keeping me firmly by his side as we enter the gate, giving his tickets to yet another Spirit Squad girl who gapes as openly as the first two. He just keeps on smiling, greeting everyone, acting as if there isn’t anything unusual about being there with the schools biggest loser.

  There’s a feeling of heightened excitement inside the stadium, students milling about everywhere. Students, parents and school faculty are all dressed in their own school colors depending on which team they’re here to support. Even Henry is wearing our school colors. I look down at my yellow shirt which represents neither. Appropriate somehow; an island unto myself.

  I’m very conscious of the feel of his hand pressed against mine. I know this isn’t a date, just friends hanging out. Knowing that doesn’t change the speeding of my heart—I haven’t had my hand held since...well, since I held hands with Henry in sixth grade. We walk over to the stands, teeming with a writhing mass of over-excited humanity and I’m doubly glad he’s holding onto me, because it would be a simple thing to get lost in all these people.

  He pulls me behind him up the bleachers in a place where there doesn’t seem to be a path, and finds us seats among a group of kids who I know by name, several of whom have been my tormentors at one time or another in the past. He high-fives the guys, says hi to the girls and I stand behind him, wishing that a big hole will open beneath and swallow me up. I keep my head down, even as Henry brings me in front of him, letting go of my hand and placing both hands on my shoulders.

  “You guys all know Kate, right?” he asks with a cheerful, positive tone, shaming them into acknowledging me and saying hello. I peek up at each face, nodding slightly in reply, seeing they’re clearly as uncomfortable as me, the knowledge of our histories between us, only Henry unaware.

  Though it doesn’t seem as if there’s room for one more person where we stand, Ian and Kaden, our lunch companions, push their way in and start a loud, laughing banter with Henry and the others standing here. I’m thankful for their exuberance since it takes the edgy focus off of me.

  The football teams make their way onto the field and the crowd grows frenzied. In spite of my anxiety, I feel myself caught up in the excitement. I don’t go so far as to scream and yell like the others, but I find myself grinning. Henry’s whistling loudly next to me, and he shoots me an impish smirk that causes me to laugh aloud. Even those surrounding us seem to have come to terms with my presence and are no longer shooting me sidelong looks, ignoring me now to join in the cheering.

  There’s a coin toss, though I could only tell that it was in our favor by the cheering that erupted all around me. After that, the teams line up at opposite ends of the field and someone from the other team kicks the ball towards our team. To my surprise, everyone running toward him suddenly stop when he kneels down. I’m confused; my limited knowledge at least knows there’s supposed to be tackling involved.

  Henry chooses that moment to look over at me, and seeing the confounded look on my face, leans toward me. Yelling to be heard over the crowd, he asks “Have you ever been to a football game before?”

  I shake my head.

  “Watched one on TV?”

  I shake my head again.

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “I thought I did. I thought they were supposed to tackle each other.”

  “Mostly that’s true.”

  “So why did they all stop?”

  So he explains it to me—and explains each play after that. I listen intently, determined to learn. It’s difficult to concentrate because the noise around us makes it hard to hear, so he wraps his arm around my shoulder with each explanation, pulling me close so I can hear better. It creates a private little cocoon, and I can look up at him, eyes locked on his without it meaning anything more than that I’m listening.

  Not more to him, anyway; but so much more to me. After a while, he quits taking his arm down between explanations, leaving it resting on my shoulder.

  When quite a bit of time has passed, he says, “Come on,” grabbing my hand and pulling me up the stairs, this time to walk along the sidewalk at the top of the bleachers.

  “Is the game over already?”

  “No, it’s almost halftime. But if we don’t get to the snack stand now, we’ll have to stand in a long line.”

  When we get to the snack stand, the line is a dozen people deep, and I wonder what he considers a long line. I hear the whistle blow, then both teams jog off the field and I assume that means half time has arrived. The line behind us grows, snaking out until I can see what he meant.

  Just before we arrive at the front of the line Henry turns to me and asks me what I would like. Panic freezes me for a moment. I didn’t bring any money. I don’t have any to bring even if I’d wanted to. I simply shake my head.

  “You don’t want anything?” he’s genuinely baffled.

  “No, I’m okay. I…I ate earlier.” Again, not exactly a lie since I had eaten—lunch, at school.

  “Come on, you can’t be at the game without a hot dog. It’s tradition.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.”

  It’s our turn so he steps forward and orders while I look around, pretending my empty stomach isn’t grumbling at the smells. I can’t help but notice the looks I’m getting from those standing in line who attend our school. The same looks I’ve seen on other faces all night. I ignore them, not wanting my night ruined.

  Henry turns and hands me a soda and a hot dog, shoving them into my hands before I can refuse them, turning back to the girl at the stand to grab a matching pair for himself.

  “No, I said I was—”

  “I know, but since this is your first game, I don’t want to be accused of not giving you the full experience.” His smile disarms me.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He leans his head down toward me, eyes black in the night, and my breath stops. “You’re welcome,” he says, a smile in his voice.

  We walk over to a table laden with condiments, most of which have been spilled across the table. We load our hot dogs with ketchup, mustard and relish and eat them, dripping condiments on the already splattered ground. It’s the best food I’ve ever eaten.

  We make our way back to the stands just as the teams came back out onto the field. There’s more cheering, though not as enthusiastic as when the game first started. Henry stands next to me, only occasionally having to explain plays or rules now. Because he isn’t standing with his arm around me—to my disappointment—I’m thinking more clearly and notice things I hadn’t before.

  There aren’t very many people actually paying attention to the game. Most of them that are watching are the parents. Everyone else is milling about, talking and laughing, only turning to the game when a good tackle is made, or when points are scored.

  It’s as I’m looking around that I see her. Jessica stands a few rows above me and one section over. She’s glaring at me. The ferocity of her look stuns me. Her gaze never wavers, even though her friends are talking animatedly to her. She must have been watching me for some time because none of them even seem to notice her concentration, or look to see what she’s looking at.

  I quickly turn forward, eyes on the game, but my mind on her. I’m not sure why she hates me so much. I have tried very hard to stay out of her way and to not aggravate her any more than necessary. Apparently, my showing up
to a football game is enough to rekindle her hatred in full.

  I try to follow the game, but now it’s as if I can feel her eyes on me. Quick looks back confirm that she’s still watching. After a few peeks, Henry glances down at me, then behind me to see what I’m looking at, then back at me.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  I look back and see that she’s suddenly, intently interested in the conversation around her. My eyes narrow in suspicion.

  I smile up at Henry. “Yeah, everything’s great.”

  He smiles back at me. Our team scores a touchdown and his attention is drawn back to the field, whistling and cheering. I take a quick peek back and see that she’s once again glaring daggers at me. I sigh. It would be nice to have just one easy day in my life.

  Our team ends up winning in a very exciting tie-breaking field goal. The kicker is hoisted up onto his teammate’s shoulders and carried off the field like that, the cheerleaders are jumping up and down, people are high-fiving and yelling—and all of that goes away when Henry pulls me into an impromptu celebratory hug, pulling my feet up off the ground as he holds me. I wrap my arms around his neck for security at the suddenly weightless sensation.

  The feel of his warm solid body pressed tightly against mine is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. It’s simply a bear hug to him, but in that moment I know that whatever consequences I’ll face if my absence is found out will be well worth this moment.

  It takes some time to make our way down from the stands with all of the celebrating going on. At one point Henry’s hand is ripped from mine by the flowing tide so he tucks me under his arm, holding me tightly against his side. After a minute or two of trying to figure out what to do with my hand that’s awkwardly trapped between us, I wrap it lightly around his waist.

  Once we move out of the crowd, he might have released me, but instead he retains his hold. We reach his car and he relinquishes his hold to dig his keys out of his pocket. The loss of his heat and the cool fall night air cause me to shiver.