CHAPTER FOUR

"And we had to come to this stupid event, why?" I inquire, winded from the walk with only one crutch supporting me under my arm. We had to park all the way at the far corner of the school parking lot, and sadly the cafeteria is near the front. Had I realized the walk would be so dreadful on my ankle, I would've fought harder to stay home.

"To support your cousin. Remember, Sweetie, cousin is family in many cultures."

"I don't think I appreciate your tone."

Janie smiled at me and just patted my back awkwardly. It was completely unfair that I was dragged kicking and screaming (metaphorically speaking of course) to one of the most mundane events in this God-forsaken town. Not only did it succeed in wasting my time, but it also gave ego boost to the one-hundred or so students who, honest-to-God, didn't need it.

"So, are you gonna drag James to one of my events in the near future?"

"Clara, please, not now," Janie says through clenched teeth. Her brown eyes dart from one arriving family to the other, paranoid. She never did enjoy large gatherings simply because she had crowd issues: she's as popular in Odessa as a gay Yankee who hates football and takes the Lord's name in vain.

I zip my lips, but I'm definitely not happy about being here. I used to be more supportive of my cousin. He had talent, that much was obvious, and I understood that he didn't have the academic stamina to make it any other way except football. However, when he started treating me like I was just another fan and he stopped showing support for me, well, we haven't gotten along since we were thirteen.

The Watermelon Feed, a stupid event that just introduces the seasons football team. In all honesty, it was like a pre-season psych-up, because the official start of the season started in just two weeks, around the beginning of September. It was a major event, so naturally, I loath everything about it.

Janie and I take a place near the back simply because we aren't in-tune very well with our fellow neighbors. I place my one crutch between my legs. Janie starts whistling the TV theme song to 'Dallas' while I scan the crowd. A few people get caught staring at my face, but when I catch their eyes, they looked away quickly.

"God, you would think these people would've seen a bruise before," I mutter under my breath.

"Just ignore them," Janie mutters uselessly.

The seats fill quickly, families pouring into the Permian High cafeteria like ants at a picnic. They come wearing all black — ("It's a football event, not a funeral," Janie noted with a roll of her eyes) — and grinning like it was Christmas.

"I can't wait for this to be over with," I sigh. Janie nods.

"Hey…Clara! Hey!"

Waving at me with ten times more enthusiasm than I can even muster at this point in life is Stasia. Ever since she practically defended me against Maria a few weeks ago, she's been hanging around with me and LeAnn, and it's not so bad. The girls still find things to disagree over, but they tend to keep quiet around me. I pat the empty seat next to me, and Stasia touches the arm of a tall, slender woman next to her before pointing to Janie and me.

Stasia settles down comfortably next to me before turning back to the woman who I can only assume is her mother. They have the exact same builds, same eyes and facial features, the only huge difference is her mother's brunette hair, wrapped up in a ballerina bun.

"Mom, this is the girl I was telling you about, Clara Baker. Clara, this is my mother, Veronica Queen."

I smile awkwardly past Stasia and at her mother, holding out my hand politely. I expect her to stare at my hand with disdain, sniff with contempt. That's what LeAnn's mother did. Instead, however, Miss Veronica Queen breaks into a wide, honest-to-God warm smile. She grabs my hand and lays her other one over out conjoined limbs.

"It is an honor to finally meet you, Miss Clara Baker," she says in a shockingly strong northern accent. "Stasia talks so much about you, I feel like we've already met. You are so much prettier than Stasia gave you credit for."

I feel myself blush, grinning. She has that kind of personality that a simple compliment like that could make you beam with pride, like her opinion is the only one that should get you through life, and no one else's matter. Stasia shoots her mother an irritated glare, but I much rather like Miss Queen. "Oh, thanks," I giggle. Biting my lower lip, we release hands and I quickly introduce her to my mother. Stasia and Janie wind up switching spots so our mother's can talk.

"They really seem to like each other," I whisper, leaning in to Stasia so no one can overhear our conversation. I mean it though. The two women are talking animatedly about the Queen's move from New York, settling in, yadda, yadda. Quite frankly, I hope things work out between them. Maybe, if Janie has an actual friend in this place, she'll leave me alone and get a life.

When the feeding finally starts (after prayer and a video of Permian's Proudest Panther Plays), I only half watch, my vision slipping into a boredom induced gaze that I bet mirrors Don's face when he came out from reading through all those papers. Janie is silent beside me, applauding politely and even letting out a "whoo-hoo!" when James is called up. The enthusiastic roaring of the audience becomes a loud buzzing in my ear, and I'm unable to hear a thing. Which is apparently why Stasia suddenly shakes me.

"Who is that?" she screams in my ear when she realizes she has my attention.

I follow her gaze to the front, not having been paying attention to who was up. I half expect Don to be up, but I'm shocked to see none other than Brian Chavez standing awkwardly on the "stage", his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans. With his charismatic, yet hesitant, grin and kind, brown eyes, I can see why Stasia would want him pointed out.

"Brian Chavez," I holler back.

"Do you know him?"

"Not well," I admit.

Stasia nods and falls silent. They rotate Brian for Ivory, and I like them both well enough to applaud briefly before laying my hands back in my lap. My leg bounces up and down impatiently, and the thought of them weeding through the entire football team makes my head hurt and my leg bounce faster. Janie doesn't turn her head at all, but her hand slams down on my knee, and I can feel her put all her strength into making me stop. I do for her sake, but at least she can't hear my nails tapping on the underside of the seat.

Ivory walks off, replaced by Don. He's the first one to look remotely comfortable being ogled by the entire town like he's a piece of meat on auction—"Do I have fifty?"—but a second look reveals the same underlying fear created in the heat of nerves. The fear that they won't perform to the expectations of their coach, this town, or even themselves. Seeing that kind of fear in a seventeen year old almost makes me pity Don Billingsly and the rest of the football team. Almost.

I don't mean to stare. But my thoughts are drowning me and I'm more focused on them than where I'm looking. I can't fathom how he felt my eyes on him in this sea of people, but Don's sharp green eyes find my hazel ones, and when I realize he's looking back, I blink to "wake-up" than again when I realize he's still looking at me.

I keep expecting him to do something. But all he does is just hold my gaze to the point that I start fidgeting in my seat uncomfortably. I want to look away, I honestly do, but there's something in his eyes that holds my attention. I swallow nervously, not used to having the attention of a guy for so long. Why the hell hasn't he been called off yet? Were the other guys up there this long?

I can't take it. The intensity of his gaze mixed with the screams of the audience and the building heat of the room makes me feel clammy and sick. I practically jump out of my chair as if it electrocuted me, and I look down, breaking eye contact with Don. Apologizing profusely for jamming myself into people, I scoot through the tight space, ignoring the dirty looks.

The space where I should be able to walk freely is teeming by more people straining to see, with children on shoulders and adults on their tip-toes. I push my way through, but I stop excusing myself when I realize no one is giving me the time of day. When I finally reach the door, curiosity makes me look back, but Don has already walked off.

Feeling stupid and insecure, I push open the door and walk into the deserted hallway, the noise not much quieter despite the thick walls. But at least there's space and air. Walking a few steps away from the doors, I lean against the wall, suddenly wishing that I had both crutches because my legs won't support me, and one crutch doesn't hold dead weight very well. Sliding down, I sit on the cool floor and put my forehead on my knees just as the doors I just exited open up again.

"Hey, there you are," Stasia says. I look up, seeing her with LeAnn trailing behind her.

"Yes, here I am," I sigh. I look at Lee and ask, "Where were you?"

"My parents and I were closer to the action," she grins. "My mom wants pictures of Jerrod "making the McDougal family proud. I just happened to look back and see you leaving with Stasia trying to catch up to you."

I give her a sympathetic smile as she sits next to me. Stasia sits in front of her, grinning stupidly until I'm forced to ask, "What?"

"That boy was staring at you."

My throat tightens, although I don't know why. It's not like I did anything wrong, per se. But judging by the way I heaved-ho outta there and Stasia waggles her brows, it's hard to tell. LeAnn looks at me, and I roll my eyes, trying to play the entire situation off. "It's nothing, Don was looking in my direction—"

"He was looking right at you!" Stasia exclaims giddily.

"—probably trying to have eye sex with some girl behind more or something," I dismiss.

"Not true, I saw the whole thing," Stasia jumps up. She points at me, almost accusingly, but she's riddled with excitement. "He—Don—couldn't take his eyes off Clara. I swear to God, it's true!"

"Even if that's true, it doesn't mean anything," I stress, trying to get Stasia to lay off. LeAnn just stares at me, a slight frown on her soft features. "It doesn't," I whisper, but more so to convince myself. Biting my lip, I think back to the last conversation Don and I had, and I take a deep breath. I don't know boys, but surely Stasia and LeAnn could quench my confusion over Don's whole 'I-really-want-to-see-you-'round' a week ago.

"Well…" I begin slowly, "there is something I want to ask you guys…"

I quickly rattle off my narration, from nearly falling over to driving off in a fury. Ever since Don "rescued" me, Stasia's mouth has been slowly falling open until it begins to scratch the floor, her eyes dinner plates. LeAnn's face remains impassive. When I finish, I take a deep breath, waiting for the worse.

"He's clearly trying to fuck with your head," LeAnn snaps.

"He, like, wants you, so bad! It's sooo adorable!"

They speak simultaneously and I wince at Stasia's girly shriek, and I'm honestly more for LeAnn's conclusion, because it simply enforces what I've assumed all this time. I don't want Don's attention. In fact, I don't want anybody's attention unless they're an Ivy League or host a Division I soccer or track program.

"Pfft," I dismiss with a wave of my hand. "Stasia, I'ma have to be with LeAnn on this one. Don isn't interested in girls like me."

Stasia frowns and slowly seats back down. "Girls like you?"

I shrug. I don't even know what I mean, I just know that it's true.

"Because you're half black, you think you're not good enough for him?" Stasia snaps.

"He'd be fucking lucky to have a girl like you," LeAnn agrees. "But you deserve better."

"Guuuuuuys," I whine, because this conversation is not going in the direction I wanted. I whimper and fall over at the waist, resting my head on the cool floor. Suddenly my head starts pounding worse than when I had the entire town screaming in my ears. Boys are such a taboo topic for me. LeAnn pats my thigh sympathetically. "He's not interested. Don wants one thing outta girls, and it involves so much more thrusting and grunting than I'm ready for."

"Tennis?" Stasia jokes, a light smile on her face. When I shoot her one of those looks, she smacks her lips impatiently and rolls her eyes. "Just say sex, Clara."

"I have no problem saying sex, or fucking, or screwing, or whatever the hell people call it now. All I'm saying is that sex is all he wants."

"What's wrong with that?" Stasia asks with a laugh.

I fall silent, a hot blush spreading across my olive-toned features. LeAnn coughs awkwardly from beside me, diverting her eyes to the suddenly fascinating row of grey lockers. I suck and nibble on the inside of my cheeks, aware of how suddenly the temperature seemed to drop in the hallway. What's wrong with a guy only wanting sex, Clara? Hmm?

Stasia realizes that she's the only one laughing and begins to fall silent. She looks confused, glancing from me to LeAnn, hyper aware of a memo she missed. "Wait…" she begins slowly, her eyes gaining a luminescent glow as a sudden realization came to her, "Clara, are you a virgin?"

"The whole school coulda told ya that," LeAnn mutters dismissively.

Shooting her the most murderous glare I could muster with a headache, I remain silent. They called me 'Mary'—as in the Virgin Mary—from eighth grade to tenth I recall to myself in a detached manner. I nearly shudder at the memories of what I consider the worst three years of my life. Dealing with the sordid jokes and taunting got slightly better once LeAnn and I started getting along, but I can still recall all the months afterwards I could smell salt on my sheets from all the crying I had done, despite numerous washings.

Stasia's face fell, and I could see her dainty Adam's apple bob uncertainly. She licks her lips and then gives me a strained smile. "There's nothing wrong with—"

I let out a bark of disbelieving laughter. I probably would've been fine with being a virgin thing if it hadn't been for those three painful years, but that's what college is for, right? And if not…well, I guess there's always women. Or being a Nun, which I'm already qualified for except I'm not Catholic.

"Clara, why the hell did you just run off like that?"

I look up, not having heard my mother and Veronica come out the feeding. Their faces seemed flush and their hair is sticking to their skin, especially on the forehead and neck. Both fan themselves dramatically with the programs, panting with the flair of a bulldog.

"Honestly Janie, I didn't quite care to watch men your age and up chanting like it was a f-ing Madonna tour gone wild."

"Don't be ridiculous," Janie snaps. Then she grins at me. "Maybe Rolling Stones."

I smile a genuine smile while Veronica stares at me, shocked. "You call your mother by her first name?" The hitch in her voice suggested that she thought it might be a southern custom.

"Mom makes her feel old," I state, and Janie nods. She's only thirty-four, popping little ol' me out at the ripe age of seventeen. Another reason the crazy-obsessed conservatives (everyone over forty) hated her: the daddy was white and apparently she was a whore—and there are plenty of people who make sure she remembers it, and I know where I came from.

Like her daughter, Veronica accepts this simply at face-value, and I'm really starting to appreciate this simple "don't ask don't tell" policy in the Queen Family. "Well, we should head home," Janie sighs. "LeAnn are you sticking around or do you need a ride home or do you want to stay the night?"

Janie's offer is unexpected, but no unheard of. Besides, it is Friday. I look at LeAnn expectedly and she says, "I'd like to stay over if it's no hassle." She is such a sweet-heart when she wants to be.

"Of course it isn't, just go let your mother know and we'll be waiting here."

LeAnn runs off and I turn to Stasia just as I see her and her mother make a move for the door. "Wait, Stasia, aren't you coming over?"

I didn't think much of my asking, but Stasia's eyes do that thing where they light up, and it dawns on me she thought I was going to exclude her. She looks from Janie to Veronica, and they both give her an affirmative smile. She squeals and throws her arms around me with more enthusiasm than I expected for someone simple going to spend the night at my house. But realizing how important this must be to her, I comply and uncomfortably but surely wrap my arm around her tiny frame, close enough to inhale her most-likely expensive perfume that I don't know the name of.

Early the next morning, while the sky is still dark and after Lee and Stasia have just fallen asleep, I lay awake in my sleeping bag, arms crossed behind my head as I stare up at the ceiling. I know I'm somewhere between sleep and a semi-conscious state: my eyes are open, but I don't really feel like I'm even in my own body.

I wonder what my first kiss might be like. Soft? Passionate? God-forbid, slobbery? All these questions, these innocent curiosities most girls get over by eighth grade, but I'm a senior in high school and couldn't begin to imagine what's so hot about a tongue getting shoved down my throat.

But then again, I could be fantasizing wrong.

I make myself close my eyes and I imagine all the romance films I've seen in my lifetime, where the kiss is so deep and passionate that any girl might wish to be kissed just like that one day. The way the man tenderly clutches the woman's cheeks as if she's the most fragile thing he could hold, but tightly as if he's afraid she might vanish. But like my Romeo & Juliet, it's just another work of fiction created to remind the saps like me that we have no one to caress and hold. I can only imagine what it must be like.

Hmm…must be nice.