Author's Notes: Thanks for the review and favorites on my last story. Now I've gone from never writing a second-person narrative to two in one week. But I think you'll agree: you can't ignore Tim Riggins when he starts talking to you. :) Hope you enjoy this one.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything hereand am just doing this for fun and to pass the long months until Season 4.
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You wait in the hallway, standing between Bethany Reyes and Alex Romanov. It feels a little like waiting for a pep rally, except that you don't want to be there. You'd rather be at home, but this day means a lot to Billy, so here you are.
When the music starts, you and your classmates shuffle into the gym, obediently filing into the battered metal folding chairs in front of the stage. Family and friends pack the bleachers and it seems like they all have cameras and are madly taking pictures. The flashes are blinding and disorienting.
You scan the crowd and it doesn't take long to find Billy, who looks like he just might burst from the emotion of it all. He whispers something to Mindy and she turns her attention away from Tyra to snap a few pictures of you.
Until you saw the word in your fourth grade spelling book, you thought that picture and pitcher were the same word. It made sense to you, as much as words ever made sense. A pitcher was a container, so why couldn't you use the word to describe a container for memories?
It wasn't a word that came up a lot in your house. Your family didn't make memories that anyone would actually want to remember. The first time you had your picture taken was on school picture day in first grade.
You thought things had been different before you were born. You'd seen the photo albums, piled in a stack in the hall closet. Sometimes, when you were bored, you'd sneak one out and carry it back to your room. You'd sit on your bed and page through the album slowly, examining each picture for clues.
Most of the albums were packed with pictures of your brother. His first bath, first tooth, first birthday, first steps, first day of school, first school play.
Just-born Billy, red and wrinkled, looking around in bleary-eyed puzzlement. Your dad dozing on the couch with Billy sleeping on his chest. Billy and your dad after a fishing trip, proud smiles on both their faces and a string of fish clutched in your brother's hands.
You realized your mom was hardly in any of these pictures. The only time she made an appearance was during visits to her family in Arizona. From what you can gather, these trips happened once a year although, like the picture taking, they stopped around the time you were born.
The closest you came to seeing yourself in a family picture was the one of your pregnant mother, standing with your dad and Billy in front of the Grand Canyon. Your mother's arm was in a cast, dark circles haunted her eyes and her smile was forced.
One day, the album you snuck out to your room turned out to be your parents' wedding album, a thin leather volume tied with a white ribbon. You willed yourself into deafness as a storm raged in the living room. In the pictures, your mother was young, beautiful and happy. It was like looking at pictures of a stranger. You wondered what happened, how things managed to go so wrong. Your self-enforced deafness slipped and you heard breaking glass followed by a banshee scream.
You slammed the album shut, slid it under your bed, and then climbed out the window, headed for the sanctuary of Jay's house. Three days later, you mother left for good.
You sometimes wonder where she is and if she ever thinks of you. You wonder if she knows that it's your graduation. You wonder how she'd feel if she knew you were going to college. You wonder if she's capable of feeling anything at all.
You shake your head, your attention drawn back to the gym as that stupid tassel swings into your eyes. Tyra is on the stage, about to give the welcoming speech on behalf of the student council. You fold your arms and smile, settling back into your seat as you watch her.
Around the time Tyra started sleeping over, Billy was dating this arty, hippie chick who liked to take pictures with a Polaroid camera. Once, she left the camera out on the kitchen counter and you grabbed it when you stumbled out to get some aspirin in the middle of the night.
You took a picture of Tyra asleep, her face relaxed, her shoulder bare, her arm curled around the pillow. The only time she ever looked like she wasn't angry was when she was sleeping. When Tyra talked in her sleep, her voice was different: softer, gentler, more child-like. You'd listen to her talking or laughing and wish you could crawl into her dreams and hang out with that Tyra instead of the one who always looked at you like you'd just done something wrong.
Wrong is the right word to describe you and Tyra together. You knew each other too well and always knew how to push each other's buttons, the good and the bad ones. You acted badly because she expected it of you, practically demanded it of you. After your first few fights, when you'd done nothing wrong – it wasn't your fault if rally girls followed you around – you realized that if you were going to get the punishment, you might as well commit the crime.
Except for the fights, being with Tyra was easy and comfortable. You never had to explain messed up family situations to her. You never had to feel bad to let her into your disaster area of a house. You never felt like she was judging you because of your last name.
But being with Tyra was like putting tinfoil in the microwave. At first, the sparks were fun and entertaining, but they had the potential to turn dangerous, to start a fire that could burn the house down.
You wonder sometimes, if not for Jay's accident and everything that came after, if you and Tyra would have just ended up staying together, somehow bound together in a messed up sense of loyalty and inevitability. Like the future was written in stone, just the same as the past, both of you fated to repeat the mistakes of your parents.
You like to think that you'd make different choices, be a different man than you father. Not better, you never delude yourself into thinking that you could be better. But you know that you'd rather destroy yourself alone than take a whole family with you.
You press your thumb and forefinger into your eyes as you pinch the bridge of your nose. All this sitting around is giving you too much time to think. It's always been thinking that's gotten you in trouble. That and talking.
Tyra finishes her speech and again, the place lights up with flashbulbs as Principal Taylor takes the podium. You tune her out and watch the crowd, trying to understand why people feel the need to take pictures. Why does anyone here need a picture of the principal giving a speech at graduation?
You can understand the desire to take pictures when something really good has happened. Like the time your Pop Warner team won the division. It was a game your team wasn't supposed to win, which made the victory all the sweeter. Jay's mom took a picture of you and him after the game, both of you covered in mud, your toothy grins providing the only glimpse of white in the picture.
That game was a turning point of sorts, since it was when everyone realize that Jason Street had the talent and the drive to be a Star. That was the point where he stepped into the spotlight and you hung back in the shadows, overlooked. You tried not to mind it, tried not to be jealous. You knew you had a bit of talent, but no matter how much you loved football, you could never bring yourself to care about it the way he did, to work at it the way he did.
You didn't mind that he got all the attention, but you feared that he would leave you behind, move on to better friends. When Smash Williams moved into the district, with his big mouth and quick legs, you thought your days as Jay's best friend were numbered. You kept waiting for him to drift away, but it didn't happen. You two stayed close, even as on the field, the plays revolved around Smash and Six.
One night, you were sleeping over at Jay's house. You'd been to a party earlier, and you'd finished off two six-packs, the beer making you uncharacteristically bold and mouthy. You were laying on the floor in Jay's room, trying to keep your eyes open to minimize the spinning. You kept telling yourself that at least you couldn't fall off the floor.
Jay was telling you about a play that Smash had made up when you interrupted him, asking him why he was still friends with you.
"What are you talking about, Riggins?" he'd asked, puzzled.
"I don't know. It just seems like.....with the way things are, maybe you'd be better off being best friends with Smash or somebody who had more going for them."
You heard Jay sigh and roll onto his side. In the darkness, you could just about see the outline of his upper body, hanging off the edge of the bed, trying to talk some sense into you.
"Timmy, my dad once told me a story about Lyndon Johnson," he began.
"Lyndon the barber?" you asked, since that's the only guy you know with that name.
"No, Lyndon Johnson, he's dead now, but he was Kennedy's Vice-President and then he became President when Kennedy died."
You took this information on board, not even bothering to cover up your ignorance.
"Anyway, Johnson had a reputation for being a clever politician and there was this other guy who had a reputation for causing trouble. Johnson talked this guy into signing on for something, the details aren't important, but what is important was he got this guy on his side. When somebody asked Johnson what he was doing, taking in this troublemaker, you know what Johnson said?"
You shook your head and waited for him to tell you.
"Johnson said 'I'd rather have that guy inside the tent, pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.'"
You laughed at the funny image, even though you didn't know exactly what the story meant. You knew that if it mattered enough for Six to go through a big long explanation, then you didn't have anything to worry about.
You look up in time to see Lyla climbing the stairs to the stage. You watched her fret for days over this damn speech, but she'd never let you read it and she'd never practice it in front of you. She starts to talk about change, growth and memories.
You can't think about change and growth without thinking of Six and Lyla. Before Lyla, your time with Six was about football, bicycles and tree houses. It seemed like you'd both only just started to notice girls when suddenly Six was practically engaged.
You were still best friends, but you'd had to make room for Lyla. She brought along a gaggle of giggly cheerleaders, double-dates, chaperoned events and pictures.
Lord, the pictures. Like every second of her life had to be documented so she could be sure it had actually happened. Sometimes you felt like you wanted to take the camera out of her hands and smash it, force her to just live in the moment instead of frantically trying to record every second.
She always gave you copies of the pictures that you were in. You were nearly always frowning or moving, like you were physically incapable of enjoying yourself if you knew someone was watching through a lens.
The closest you ever came to a smile was the first time you all went to the lake. You and Six were sitting on a log near the dock and Lyla was hounding you to smile. You made a face like a male model might, like the guy in Zoolander, and then you laughed. She managed to catch the split second between when you made the face and when you started laughing, so the picture is neither one expression or the other. It's as good a picture as any she'd taken of you, which really isn't saying much.
You look up at the stage and watch Lyla smile her way through her speech. You can sense from her tone that she's close to wrapping it up. She looks at you when she says the last two words: no regrets.
Your lips twist up into a rueful half-smile. No regrets. It's become your catch-phrase, your motto, the two words that everyone associates with you. No one, not even Lyla, knows that most of the time, you're not saying it as a command. You're saying it more like a wish or a prayer. Like the mumbling way that Mrs. O'Brien at the church used to say "please, God" whenever she talked about something that was going to happen in the future. Or the way your mother used to say "touch wood" when she talked about something she hoped wouldn't happen.
The truth is, you have plenty of regrets. Nearly all of them have to do with Six and Lyla. You never think about them, not if you can help it, so you're sure as hell not going to now. The valedictorian, a guy you've never had a class with, is giving his speech and you're already bored past the point of tears. Your eyelids feel heavy, but you know Billy will be disappointed if he catches you napping at graduation.
You shift in your seat and have a look around, smiling at the girls who catch your eye. One of them, Tiffany Sheridan, gives you a wink. Tiffany.....you have good memories of her.
The weeks after the team had won State were a whirl of parties, some of them so much fun that you can barely remember them now. And the girls. It wasn't just the rally girls trailing after you. All sorts of girls were giggling when you walked past and suddenly deciding that your locker just happened to be on the way to their next class.
You couldn't help but take advantage of the situation. And why not? You were single – completely free and clear for once. On more than one occasion, Tyra had refused to give you another chance. Even though Lyla and Six had broken up again, you knew he still held out hope for a reconciliation.
You so were not going to get anywhere near disrupting that. Even if it never happened, you didn't want to have a shadow of suspicion fall on you. You became an expert in avoiding Lyla Garrity.
You never made any promises you couldn't keep and you were damn sure that any girl who hooked up with you knew exactly what she was getting.
Tiffany wasn't in any of your classes, but of course, you had seen her around. She was impossible to miss, with her perfect curves, crazily dyed hair and big green eyes that were always outlined in thick, black eyeliner. Her ears were pierced seven times, she had a nose ring, a tongue ring and was rumored to have a tattoo just below her hip.
Tiffany was about the last girl you ever expected to start coming over to your house, but that's exactly what she did. It was just easy to fall into a regular friends-with-benefits situation with her. She rarely went to parties and swore she didn't care what else happened, that you were both free to screw whomever, wherever, whenever. Even Billy had called her more of a guy than most guys he knew.
She was a firecracker and, in some ways, the perfect girl for you. You liked the way she always laid things out in blunt, clear language. You never had to guess at what Tiffany meant when she said something.
It was over Christmas break that she suggested you take photography with her in the next semester. You needed an art credit anyway and it seemed less boring than art history. You still balked though, since Lyla had taken the class the year before and had complained about having to stay after school or get passes out of study hall to have enough darkroom time to complete the assignments.
When you mentioned this to Tiffany, she smiled and looked up at you through her hair. Then she leaned over and kissed your neck, running a finger along the inseam of your jeans.
"It's a dark room with a lock. What's the problem?" She practically growled in your ear. Just in case you didn't get the hint, she ran her hand higher, up over your zipper. You inhaled sharply and she took the opportunity to slide her hand right into your boxers. You were ready to start the class right there on the spot.
The fact that she then volunteered to take all of your pictures and do your assignments? Gravy. She had two film cameras anyway and was excited about the opportunity to be experimental and take risks with the work you would turn in. You didn't care, as long as the photos were good enough to pass the class.
The class itself was criminally boring, with all of its talk of f-stops, film speed, ISO, apertures, focal lengths, lens ratios and God knows what else. All of the tests were of the take-home variety and Tiffany was more than happy to help you with them. Which was good because you found the whole photography thing as appealing as trying to learn math in a foreign language.
But you loved the darkroom, with its cinder block walls and humming extractor fan. You could nearly imagine that it was a bomb shelter and the two of you were the last people on earth. The chemical smells and the steady buzz of the extractor fan are what you think of when you remember that room.
The process of creating the pictures was long, with a lot of waiting, but that was fine by you. You'd watch her mess around with the enlarger, mystified by how the light projected the image down onto the paper. She didn't like you to mess with her concentration during that part, but sometimes, you couldn't help yourself.
After she got the paper into the first of the four chemical baths, then she was happy for your distraction. You liked to stand behind her, letting your hands wander, while you watched the paper swim in the first tray, the ghostly image taking shape.
The picture was only in the first two trays for relatively short periods of time. The third and fourth trays took much longer and gave you and Tiffany more time to take advantage of the darkroom.
Photography quickly became your favorite class. It had everything to do with art but nothing to do with photographs. It was all about Tiffany, her hot skin, soft hands, and warm mouth. Jesus. The things that girl could do with her mouth. If that wasn't art, you didn't know what was.
A week ago you stopped by the wedding photographer's studio to pick up Mindy and Billy's wedding album. When you got there, the receptionist said the guy was in the darkroom and asked you to wait in his office. You waited, watching the warning light over the door behind his desk. When the photographer opened the door, a chemical smell washed over you and you had to shift uncomfortably to avoid an awkward situation.
During the semester, you took just one picture. You'd been standing inside the photography classroom, holding "your" camera, looking out over the courtyard when you spotted Julie Taylor talking to Seven. You took a picture, keeping the focus on Julie, carefully leaving Seven outside of the frame.
Later that week, you and Tiffany looked at the proof sheet in the darkroom. She put the magnifying glass right over that one.
"I don't remember taking that," she said. You felt her shoulders stiffen and were reminded of the hackles on a dog. You came up close behind her, kissed her neck, nudged your knee between her legs, felt her lean back against you.
You ran your hands down her sides and over her hips, impatiently pulling up the soft fabric of her knee-length skirt. You smiled against her neck when you realized she wasn't wearing any underwear. She turned around and kissed you hard, pushing you back into the wall, her hands already on your zipper.
Disaster averted although you had the sinking feeling that Tiffany might be started to have feelings for you, an idea that was as depressing as it was frightening. Why did girls always have to go and mess up a good thing?
A few days later, you cut class and went to the darkroom alone. It took you a few tries, but you got the picture right eventually.
The photo turned out even more breath-taking than the scene in your memory. Julie's head was slightly tilted, hair flowing over her shoulders. She was looking up adoringly, a warm smile spreading across her face.
The light in the courtyard reflected off her hair, causing a sort of halo effect, which was pretty, but it was the expression on her face that got to you. You were quite certain that no one had ever looked at you that way, and until you saw the photo, you hadn't realized you wished that someone would find you worthy of that sort of look.
You're startled out of your memories by a tug on your sleeve. The girl next to you hisses that it's time to move. You stand up and follow her out of the row, up toward the front. When your name is called, you stroll across the stage, shake Principal Taylor's hand and accept the empty diploma cover. You've been told that you'll get real diploma later, and you can help but feel that's a line on par with "the check is in the mail."
You spend the rest of the ceremony in a flash-blinded daze, impatiently waiting for the minute you can finally take the stupid hat off. You've moved the tassel to the other side, where it dangles in your face even worse than it had. Finally, the music starts and you're able to follow your classmates out of the gym. The second your foot hits the hallway, you take off the hat.
It's chaos outside, as all of the students in the class of 2009 mill around, trying to find their families. You run into Billy almost immediately and he thumps you on the back, trying to be cool but unable to hide the emotion in his eyes. Mindy motions the two of you together and takes a picture then grabs Billy's hand and drags him away so they can find Tyra.
He looks back at you, sheepish and apologetic, but you just shrug and wave him on. Mindy may have taken his last name, but there's no mistaking the fact that he's become a Collette. He's so happy, so excited to become a father, so in love with Mindy. You're sure not going to stand in his way or make him feel guilty about anything. He's given up the last eight years of his life for you and the rest of it needs to be about him and his new family.
Lyla sweeps up next to you, her hat still perfectly perched on her head. You bet that she didn't have any problems with that stupid tassel. She kisses you, standing on her toes and pressing up against you with enough force to nearly knock you off balance. You give into her kiss and for a moment, the rest of the world slips away.
You kiss her cheek, her jaw, her neck, then whisper in her ear. "Let's get out of here."
"We can't. We're going to dinner with my family. Remember?"
The words and the slightly nagging tone have the same effect on you as a bucket of water. You mumble that you remember and step back from her, just as her family arrives.
"Lyla, I am so proud of you, baby," says Buddy, jostling you out of the way to hug his daughter.
You step back and greet Lyla's mother as generically as possible. You're not sure what you're supposed to call her. Calling her by her first name feels wrong and you have no idea what her last name is now, even though Lyla probably told you.
When Buddy lets Lyla go, she hugs her mother, brother and sister. Then her mother pulls out the smallest digital camera you've ever seen and asks you to take a picture of her with Lyla. After that, Lyla's mom takes a picture of the two of you.
"Uh, Pammy, you think you could take one of me with Lyla?" asks Buddy, sweat pouring down his temples.
"Sure, Buddy, a picture of the three of you would be darling. Go ahead and stand up in there," she says, her words dripping with that overly sweet tone designed to hide true feelings.
You realize immediately what's going on. Lyla's mom has figured out how much Buddy dislikes you dating his daughter and is trying to make him uncomfortable. Maybe she also figures she can score some points with her daughter by being nice you. Whatever her reasoning, you don't appreciate being used. It's bad enough you're going to suffer through another tortuous dinner at the country club to make Lyla happy.
"Hey, uh, I need to find my brother. Okay if I meet up with y'all in a little while?" You make it sound like a question, like a request, but it's not.
Lyla nods in a way that lets you know that she's not happy about your slipping away, but she understands. You kiss her cheek, say goodbye to her family and walk away as fast as your legs will carry you. You twist through the crowd, pretending you're looking for someone, intent on disguising your true destination.
When you reach your truck, you toss the stupid cap behind the seat and pull the gown over the top of your head without even bothering to unzip it. The relief is only minor and temporary, since, at Lyla's insistence, you're wearing your good clothes.
The keys are heavy in your hand, and it would be easy to just drive away. Which you want to do. Except you don't want to disappoint Lyla. You do love her, so much, but you're beginning to realize it's not going be enough.
You open the container in the back of your truck, take out a small blue cooler and lift the lid. The ice has all melted, probably hours ago, but it doesn't matter. The whisky you put in there, just in case you needed something to take the edge off before dinner, is a tolerable temperature.
As you take a sip, you smile to yourself. You do know how to plan, but, like reading, it's something you choose not to do very often. You lean against the truck and look out toward the football field, finally allowing yourself to realize that this part of your life is over.
When you look at your life, you can see a series of events that changed you, made you who you are. In your head, these events are marked with bold, thick lines that divide the Before and the After.
Before your mother left. After your mother left.
Before Jay's accident. After Jay's accident.
Before your father came back. After your father left for good.
Mostly, usually, the space between Before and After is a razor-thin slice of time. A tackle. A slamming door. A few angry, hurtful words. A split-second when everything changes.
But sometimes, you come across a line that involves a While.
Before you were a Panther. While you were a Panther. After you were a Panther.
Standing in the parking lot, looking at the field, the whiskey burning in your throat, you let yourself think about the After for the first time. It feels like Buddy Garrity is sitting on your chest.
"So this is how you celebrate graduation? By breaking major school rules?"
You look up and find Julie Taylor standing in front of you, carrying what looks like a pencil case. Her hair is piled on her head and she's wearing a red sundress that could make even the most devout priest have impure thoughts. The effect, though, is slightly ruined by the bulky SLR camera hanging around her neck.
"Something like that," you mumble and manage to smile. You hold the bottle out to her and are surprised when she takes it. She bolts down a respectable shot and wipes her lips her the back of her hand before handing the bottle back to you.
"Thanks. You have no idea how much I needed that. Lois is driving me nuts. I'm helping her out, taking pictures for the yearbook, and she forgets to empty the memory cards for the camera and leaves the spares in her car." She pauses for a breath, rolls her eyes and waves the pencil case.
"I'm sorry, you probably don't care about any of this."
You shake your head and smile. "No worries, Taylor. I'm not doing anything else just now."
"Right, so, are you going to Bradley's party?" she asks.
"No, I'm going to dinner with Lyla and her family," you say, trying to keep your tone neutral and your face blank.
"Oh, hence the whiskey," she says with a smile. "So, you must be thrilled to finally be getting out of here. You excited about college?"
You shrug and look past her, your thoughts still struggling to catch up with the present. You're silent for longer than most people would be comfortable with. When you finally meet her eyes, she's still looking at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"I don't know how I feel right now, to be honest with you."
She nods. "You know what they say.....'To make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.'"
You frown. "Really? People say that?"
"Well, okay, maybe not people. Maybe just one guy, TS Eliot, said that. Doesn't make it any less true."
You look at her and think of that picture you have, hidden safely in a box at the bottom of your closet. You wonder if there's any series of events that could happen that would ever make Julie Taylor look at you that way.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, biting her lip.
"Oh sorry, it's just you have a ladybug in your hair."
It's quite possibly the dumbest thing you've ever said, but at least it's true and provides a distraction. You reach out but she grabs your wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Just....just don't kill it, okay?"
You assure her that you won't. You gently flick the bug into your palm where it lands on its back, tiny legs flailing. In one smooth movement, you flip your hand over above her arm, where the ladybug lands right-side up, looking like a small red and black freckle.
"My Grandma Taylor, she would watch me sometimes in the summer, give my mom a break. She'd always send me out to try to catch ladybugs, so she could put them on her houseplants. She said they were great at eating tiny bugs that we could barely even see," says Julie, her voice wistful and soft.
It's a sweet memory and you don't know what to say. You never even met either of your grandmothers. "You going to see her this summer then?"
Julie shakes her head, her cheeks turning pink. "She died...when I was twelve."
You mumble your apologies while silently berating yourself for saying yet another monumentally stupid thing.
"No, no. It's okay. I mean, I miss her, but she'd been really sick, so it was a blessing. And I always feel like she's close to me. This might sound weird, but sometimes I feel like she sends me ladybugs."
You don't know how Julie Taylor does this. How she's able to care so much, feel so deeply, that it becomes contagious. You miss her grandmother now, wish you'd had a chance to meet the woman, wish you could have caught a few ladybugs for her. You know you'll never look at them the same way again.
"Well, I guess I should go. Enjoy your night....if that's possible," says Julie.
You lift the whiskey bottle. "Anything's possible, Taylor."
She starts to walk away, but then stops and turns back. "Hey, um, can I take your picture?"
You nod and immediately wonder how you're supposed to look. You fold your arms and try to keep your face blank, but you can't. You keep thinking of Julie, running around catching ladybugs for her grandmother, and the image just makes you smile with affection. You hear the shutter click a few times and then Julie waves good-bye, disappearing between the rows of parked cars.
A few days later, you wake up alone at noon in an empty house. You stumble out into the living room and spot something laying on the floor in front of the door. When you get closer, you see it's a plain white envelope.
You pick it up and sit down on the couch. The envelope is unsealed, the flap tucked in. You ease a finger under the thin paper and lift it up, then slide out a few photographs from graduation night. You flip through them and they're just the regular yearbook type shots – you standing with your classmates, waiting to go into the gym. You accepting your diploma. You walking off the stage while moving that damned tassel to the other side.
The last picture is the one Julie took of you in the parking lot. You're leaning forward slightly, like you're trying to listen to someone who's talking softly. Your hair hangs nearly in your eyes. Your smile is warm and genuine. The expression reminds you of that picture in the box in the bottom of your closet.
It feels like a beginning.