Earlier this morning, I hauled out the junk in the turret that the owners left there. The turret has a bathroom, which is perfect, since I need a sink and water to use for processing. And maybe I'll feel closer to Henry there, if Mary Jane at the pharmacy knows what she's talking about. My feelings about our resident ghost are all mixed up. The thought of Henry's spirit hanging out here scares me a little, but I read another of his poems last night and I don't care if he was a freak or not; he feels like the one person who understands me.
"Fine," says Mom, "I'll help you. What do we need to do?"
"Vacuum and paint the walls," I tell her. "It's so windy all the time that dust is all over the place up there. A speck of dirt can ruin the processing."
"I saw some white paint in the garage. But we don't have to do it. The handyman is coming back tomorrow to get started. I'll tell him to add painting the turret to his list."
"I don't want to wait. I'd rather do it myself so it'll be right."
Mom smiles wryly. "Okay then, Miss Perfectionist. We'll get to it after breakfast." She kisses my forehead, then stands and starts toward the door. "I'm glad you're taking pictures again. You should bring your camera along to the stadium tonight."
The football field opens up in front of us, a long stretch of green divided into grids by straight white lines. A curving red track with seven lanes surrounds the field, and it's cluttered with makeshift booths—card tables filled with crafts, baked goods, glasses of lemonade, and other items for sale. At least fifty band members, dressed in their regular clothes, stand in rows, center field, warming up.
"The woman I spoke with on the phone said to look for her on the track directly beneath the press box," Mom calls back to me. She leads Papa Dan in that direction, and I follow behind, watching the opposite sideline, where six female cheerleaders in short orange skirts practice backflips and cartwheels. Alison's bouncing blond ponytail is hard to miss. I keep my gaze on her, wondering what it would've been like to grow up in a town like this. Do the kids here know there's more to life than football? I seriously doubt it.
The band breaks into a familiar fight song, and like programmed robots, the cheerleaders' pom-poms snap into position as they begin a dance routine. "Go, Cats! Fight, Cats! Win, Cats!" they yell, pumping their pom-poms into the air. Alison bumps her hip against the girl on her left, and I realize it's Shanna beside her. No surprise. Fans whistle and clap, chanting along with the cheerleaders. The school mascot wears a cat suit, complete with a tail and claws. He runs up and down the sidelines, then pulls off the bobcat head to yell at someone in the bleachers. Rooster Boy. I groan out loud.
People of all ages laugh and talk on the bleachers, wander around the sidelines, and visit with one another at the booths. All so at ease, so familiar with one another. My stomach wobbles. How will I ever feel like I belong in this little town where everyone else seems to have known one another all of their lives? In the cities I've lived in before, the schools were full of unknowns—outcasts, or other transplants like me, just passing through.
"Millicent!" a shrill voice calls, and I turn to see a tall, skinny woman in jeans, a Bobcat T-shirt, and tennis shoes waving frantically at us from beside a card table. The table is decorated with black crepe paper that flutters in the breeze. "Millicent Moon!"
"Della?" Mom calls back.
She nods. "Della Shroeder. We spoke on the phone?"
"Oh, look what you've done!" Mom exclaims, guiding Papa Dan toward the grinning woman. I follow, mortified by what I see. A little boy and girl dressed in torn black clothing stand next to Della Shroeder. Their eyes are smudged black with makeup, and red lipstick is smeared on their faces to simulate blood. Mom sets her box on the table and says, "Well, hello, little zombies!" Della and Mom shake hands. "You've gone to so much trouble," my mother says. "This is so creative. I love it!"
"No trouble at all," says Della. Indicating the zombies, she says, "These are my twins, Luke and Lacy."
Mom introduces Papa Dan and me, then settles my grandfather in one of two folding chairs on the opposite side of the card table. I open a box and begin setting books next to a bouquet of black and gray carnations as fast as I can, ready to go off on my own before anyone my age wanders by and sees the whole lame setup. After we finish arranging the display, I stack the empty boxes under the table, then catch Mom's eye from where she stands talking to a group of ladies. I lift my camera, and she nods.
The upper third of the stands is empty. I make it to the press box and sit on the low cement wall alongside it, above the top bleacher bench. I can see everything—the band on the field, the cheerleaders and Rooster Boy on the opposite sideline, the townspeople milling about. When I look straight down and use my zoom, I see Mom and Papa Dan from behind. The gaudy black booth has attracted a small crowd. I recognize some of the group—stone-faced Mrs. Quattlebaum, Reagan from the grocery store, Della Shroeder and her zombie twins, J. B. the pharmacist and Mary Jane—who didn't even contact me today about my pictures. I felt funny calling her on a Sunday, so I didn't. The truth is, I was a little afraid of seeing the photos, anyway, so I put it off. I'm still afraid. Or more like freaked out, I guess. I'll go by City Drug after school tomorrow, first thing, and pick them up. Might as well find out the truth about what I saw—or didn't see—in that mulberry tree, one way or the other.
Aiming the camera randomly from the field to the sidelines to the bleachers across the way, I shoot pictures quickly—band members marching, Rooster Boy strutting, cheerleaders bumping and grinding. A father chasing a toddler away from the field; families cheering in the stands. I shift again to Mom's booth. Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth is there now, too.
It's only then that I tune in to an argument going on a few feet behind me, on the other side of the press box. Two male voices—one older, the other young.
"We've already talked this to death," the older man says. "Get your butt over to that grocery store and join your team! You're suited up and ready to go. Now get out of here!"
"Dad, I—"
"Don't argue with me, Tate. I thought we decided—"
"You decided. I just gave in, like always! I'm not you, Dad. I'm not you. I don't want to play football this year. I want to—"
"Waste your time on a bunch of nonsense? Give up the sure bet of a football scholarship for the slim chance you might win a stupid contest?!"
"It's not just a stupid contest, Dad, it's—"
"Do you want to go to college or don't you?"
"If I win, it'll help pay tuition! Why can't you—"
"If you win," the father says with a dismissive huff.
"If Mom were here—"
"Well, SHE ISN'T! Okay? I am!. As long as you're living under my roof, you listen to me! UNDERSTOOD?!"
"Forget it," the guy says in a clipped, defeated voice. After a long pause, he says, "It's too late for me to catch the team, anyway. Here they come."
A roaring cheer rises up from below me, and I glance down to see football players in uniform rushing onto the field, each one carrying a watermelon. Upon seeing their half naked body... well, not totally naked though. Sure they are wearing the Football uniform, but its kind of trimmed down their belly which kinda shows their HOT STEAMY ABS! If you guys can picture this. "OH MY GOSH!" I murmur.
The sweat truly compliments their toned muscles from up to down there under. Okay, I'm not going to full details here! I'll just go and snap pictures. Yeah~ That's probably the best option. OMGGGGGG! My lenses on feast! Oh Hailey, if you only see what I see, you won't go fishing for your bestie's boyfie! Oh well, poor you! HAHAHAHAHA
"Ladies and gentleman…," it booms, "the Cedar Canyon High School fighting Bobcats have arrived!" The band begins a rousing chorus of the school song. People in the stands and on the sidelines lift their hands above their heads along with the cheerleaders, moving their arms left to right with the music and singing. The players deposit their watermelons into a pile on the grass at the edge of the field.
I take shot after shot, moving quickly, but my mind is on the quarrel I overheard between the guy named Tate and his selfish father. Good for you, Tate, I think. Good for you for not giving in this time. For standing up for yourself.
The band plays a second song as the football players form a single line. The crowd claps to the beat of the music. The cheerleaders prance. Rooster Boy in his cat uniform pulls a small, round melon from the pile, then tries to drop-kick it toward the goal. The melon makes a short, sharp arc into the air before falling a few feet away from him and splattering onto the field, shooting red mush everywhere. Laughter erupts as he falls to the ground, grabbing his toe, and I catch myself laughing, too.
Seconds later, the band stops playing and moves to the end of the field. In the press box, the announcer begins introducing the varsity team members, and one by one they leave their line and run to the center of the stadium. "Number seventy-three, Blaine Carter, offensive guard. Number twenty-one, Dustin Blades, fullback. Number thirteen, Cody Riddlesborough, wide receiver. Number ten, Tate Hudson, quarterback."
Tate Hudson. I pause, zoom in closer on the quarterback. The man I heard arguing behind the press box called his son "Tate." The quarterback's helmet is off, and I recognize the golden hair, the sharp-angled face—though the last time I saw him, he didn't look so unhappy. Tate is the guy I met at the Longhorn Café our first night here. The one who was so nice to me at the salad bar. I snap his photograph, feeling bad for him and disappointed that he didn't stand his ground, after all. But I understand. Lately, I feel powerless over what happens in my own life, too.