Chapter 11

Since dad will be home late, I decide to make him lasagna—one of the few dishes we have no jaded memories of with my mom. She thought it took too long to make, so only dad made lasagna. The layers and steps probably distracted her from drinking, her primary objective. The lasagna will make him smile like I seldom see anymore once he sees the note. And of course, we'll have dinner for at least another day, even with my large but perfectly normal appetite.

By 6:30, the lasagna is baking in the oven. I turn on the tv and pull out homework to keep my mind from wandering to a perfect August day. I open my English text, but that's a lost cause. Homework includes a ridiculous amount of love sonnets, and I can find some connection to Logan in each one. From John Donne to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, my feelings are a cliché of epic proportions. And forget Shakespeare. It's like Sonnet 40 was written explicitly for us, or at least for me:

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.

Shakespeare had no idea how many ways a love could be a thief. I slam the book closed. I have to write a response to a sonnet by Friday, but at this rate, my response will be a love letter to Logan, riddled with distress about goat-napping. Wherefore art thou a goat-napper? Of course, I know the answer already. He's a good friend to Wallace, or maybe he owes him for something besides the hall passes. I know a thing or two about favors.

Biology seems safer, what with confusing words tortured from Latin. Time to read about photosynthesis, which apparently is not just for the trees. All green things in nature have some kind of photosynthesis occurring, and just like that, I can see the large grass expanse before me, the air thick with the smell of pubescent teenagers still learning about deodorant.

I could see him the rest of the game, like my periphery had developed laser technology, tracking his every move. He didn't seek me out again but once ran by me and smirked over his shoulder. We won the game 1-0, my lone goal being the only goal. He smirked again at me when we slapped hands in the routine post-game handshake line with the opposing team. I ran in a daze back to my bag and nodded noncommittally to comments from my teammates, not knowing what was said.

I walked to the parking lot to wait for my mom. Predictably, she wasn't there already like the other parents. Dad typically wouldn't miss a match, but they had a few deputies call in that day. I called her though I knew she wouldn't answer. I knew how this would play out. She would either come within the next hour, or I would have to call my dad to tell him she still hadn't picked me up. I hung up after leaving a message where I reminded her that her daughter had a soccer match and still couldn't drive herself home. Maybe she could find the time to pick me up?

After the majority of the cars dispersed, as if on cue, I saw a nondescript black limo at the back of the parking lot. The driver was leaning against his door with one foot propped behind him on the car and his arms crossed. He waved to me, and I looked from side to side, seeing no one. Touching my left hand to my chest, I said, "Me?" out loud though he was too far away to hear. If I had been secretly in love with this driver and my entire family had just forgotten my sixteenth birthday, it would have been a picture perfect ending to my game. But I was only twelve going on 13 and my alcoholic mother forgot to pick me up too many times to count.

I felt him behind me before I heard him. He wasn't touching me, but my entire body felt flushed, like I just walked into a hot shower and felt the steam before the water.

"I think he was waving at me, Bobcat."

A buzz from my phone brings me back to the present, but before I can look at it, the timer on the oven goes off. Lasagna! Channeling Garfield, I race to the kitchen and pull out the lasagna. I know I should let it cool, but experience has taught me how many blows can cool fresh lasagna so it doesn't burn my tongue. I'm cutting a slice when I hear the buzz on my phone again. It could be my dad giving me an ETA for the evening. It could be Mac with more follow up questions. Deep down I know though that it's Logan, like he has ESP and knew I was fantasizing about him, even though the dream was about twelve-year-old Logan, not ice cream Logan from today. I sigh and resign myself to reading the text. I'm both excited and terrified that he is texting me tonight—excited that maybe he likes me too and terrified he's going to hate me when this is over.