The ground under me felt soft. Even though it was December, the earth definitely wasn't frozen yet because I sank down every time I switched weight from foot to foot. And every time I descended another inch, I had this fleeting sensation I was plummeting into the ground with my dead classmate.
The school's choir lit into "Amazing Grace." At the second verse, one girl stepped forward and sang a solo. And as I listened to Brenda Newell's clear, solid voice, I remembered the first time I realized everything around me was changing. The wind whipped up, fluttering my skirt around my legs, and I lifted the collar of my coat over my chin. I hugged myself tight just like I had that night. It might've been only weeks before. But standing in the cemetery between my parents, it seemed like a century ago.
It'd been a cool October night, and rain the day before had made the game slippery and sloppy with mud. Football Homecoming showered down on my school with fortune and victory.
The Math Club had worked the concession stand. The cheerleaders had finished their celebration dance, flipping and twirling across the sidelines. The band was hyped from their full-throated rendition of "Peter Gunn." And I, editor of the school's journal, was cursed with the assignment of interviewing coach and quarterback after their conquest. 10
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
Popcorn and cups littered the still-lit, deserted stadium. The field was torn to shreds. One big puddle completely wiped out the fifty-yard line.
I leaned against the frosty brick wall of the gym and tried to shield myself from the October chill. But the cold sneaked in with every breath I took. It froze my lungs to my ribs and had me sucking in air through chattering teeth. One geek in the Math Club had thought to be funny and served me a diet soda when I'd ordered a regular. So there I was, nasty aftertaste clinging to my tongue, waiting for the jocks to arrive. I watched the line of red taillights as the parking lot cleared. A few people lingered, grouped by their cars, laughing and talking. My brother was among one of those crowds, waiting for me to finish my interview. Marty didn't live at home anymore but he'd been going to the game anyway and had reluctantly let me ride with him. He'd graduated a couple of years before but since he was immature and had been a class clown, my generation still remembered and welcomed him into their clutches. The opposing team shuffled onto their bus with their heads lowered. And here came the champs. Braying like a bunch of coon dogs, they looked pumped and riled. The ground rumbled under my feet as the stampede approached. Still huddled together in one lumped mass, they came, charging toward the side door of the gym that led to their locker room. Cleats click-clacked on the asphalt parking lot, reminding me of my Great Aunt Kay's dog, Chigger, who liked to run across her linoleum floor, creating as much clatter as 11
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
possible. The team blew by me, smelling of musty earth, sports cream and sweat.
I couldn't spot Coach Newell, but there he was, trailing at the end, grinning with the rest of the idiots: quarterback Luke Carter.
I rose onto my toes and waved my hand. "Luke," I called, and quickly dropped my fingers when I realized I probably looked like some overeager groupie.
The chanting was too loud, though. One player did glance my way, but moved on without speaking. All he saw of me was a long brown trench coat with a mop of fuzzy blond hair sticking out the top. Nothing worth pausing over, I'm sure.
"Carter!" I put a little more gut into the call and finally caught his attention.
In his red jersey smeared brown, he faltered a step, his head swiveling my way. Then with a quick sidestep, he slipped from the group and came toward me. The streetlights played the shadows like a puppeteer, dangling darkness over his torso and down. When he emerged from the shadows, I sucked in a breath. The football pads made his shoulders seem wider and his chest twice as broad, while thigh pads made his waistline look especially slim. He moved like he was full of cardboard, stiff and ambling.
He towered over me, a looming six feet two inches tall (according to the football roster) to my five feet seven. His helmet was off, hanging at his side, and he'd wrapped his fingers around the face guard. A cut across his right eyebrow sliced toward the corner of his eye. Tiny etches of blood filled the cracks and defined the spot where he'd have a healthy 12
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
showing of crow's feet someday. His wet black hair curled slightly down his forehead and around his ears. And his eyes were a blue so clear that if they'd been a lake, I could've seen right to their rocky bottoms.
Finally, he smiled...and I wanted to kick him. He had a row of bright white teeth with a bit of an overbite, and a dimple I could've fallen into.
I hated him for that grin. I mean, how dare he look at me with those blue orbs and display such a genuine smile? I didn't want it. I didn't want to step into line behind every other girl in school whose heart went into double-thump for this boy. He had no right to give me that busted-ice feeling. Yeah, busted ice. It's like making instant gelatin the fast way with ice instead of cold water. When the ice cubes drop into the boiling gelatin they crack and sometimes bust into a hundred pieces. Well, my stomach was full of a dozen of those cubes, busting and cracking all over inside me because Luke Carter was a vision.
"Yeah?" he asked, resting his helmet against his hip.
"Carrie Paxton," I said, sticking my hand in the space of air between us. I tried to keep it professional despite my irritation over the busted ice in my gut. "Editor of The Central Record."
"I know." He took my hand. Compared to his, my fingers were small and weak. "You're in my Trig class." His handshake was cold and slightly damp. He squeezed my palm before letting go. My mouth dropped open. He wasn't supposed to know that about me.
13
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
I'm sorry. But no girl, despite how much that girl doesn't care about popularity and all that junk, can remain calm when someone like Luke Carter shakes her hand and actually knows her name. OK, I admit he should've known my name. We'd gone to the same school since kindergarten. But noticing me enough to realize we shared a class? No way.
"Oh," I said. If I'd had any air left in my lungs, I might've been able to continue, but I did a fairly decent job of making a fool out of myself as it was. "Well. I...I...I mean, is it OK to talk to you, er, ask you a few questions about the game? For the paper, that is."
"Sure."
A bead of muddy sweat trickled out of his hairline and down his temple, mixing with blood before moving on. Fascinated, I watched it drool a crooked path down his cheek and neck and then into the collar of his jersey. As if catching my entranced stare, he lifted the hand that held his helmet and wiped the sweat away with the back of his palm. "What do you want to know?" I cleared my throat and dropped my eyes. "Umm, well..." I yanked a notebook from the inside pocket of my trench coat. The wind caught a few sheets, making the lined pages flail and thrash like they were drowning in the ocean or something. I tried to get a hold of them and rein them in but only succeeded in wrinkling most of the pad.
"Sorry," I muttered, and dug deep into my outer pocket, frantically searching for my pen. I couldn't find the irritating thing there, and switched hands on the notebook to search 14
The Stillburrow Crush