Free Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul Page A

Julyair,Ifeltcoolandclear.AsItracedpatternsinthestars,Iimaginedhowhelooked,lyingnexttome: face angled up at the sky, skin lit by the moon. And when I gave in and turned my head to see the real thing, I nearly jumped off the grass. He wasn’t staring at the stars. He was staring at me. I opened my mouthinsurprise,andthelonggrasstickledmylipsandstucktomytongue.Ispititout,andhelaughedat mewhileKrisandCalfoughtoverthebestconstellationname:Cal’sStarfreakerversusKris’sHardto Star. Later that night, when we walked up to the street corner to say our good-byes, Hudson picked a piece of grass out of my hair. Two months later, he threaded his fingers through Jolene’s, right where I couldseehim.Hewasn’tmineanymore,ifheeverhadbeen.
    A whistle blows. A bunch of alumni walk onto the grass and start warming up next to the varsity players.
    Iunzipmycoat.Theairiscrisp,andthesunhasholdofthewholesky.Redandyellowleavesrustle inthetrees.WhenJakestilllivedathome,andeverythingwasloudandbusy,Iusedtogetonmybikeand rideherewhenIneededtoscreamordaydream,whenIwantedtobelost.Alone.Buttodaytheparkis crowded.
    Peoplestreamdownthecracked,pavedpath—smallclustersofscarvedalumni,amassivepackfrom the senior class, scattered groups of juniors—talking and laughing on their way to the aluminum bleachers.Ifindatreeafewyardsawayandwatchastheyfilein,squishingtogetherandsquintinginto thewintersun.
    Thentheextraballsarebagged,theplayersareinposition,andacoinisflippingintheair.Whenit hits the grass, Cal leans over, calls, “Heads it is, chumps!” and every pair of feet on the field starts jumpingandshuffling,waitingforthatfirstpass.Hudsonplaceshisrightcleatontopoftheball,looks downfield, then passes to Cal and sprints forward. His arms pump inside his long-sleeved shirt, which foldsandflapsagainstthewind.Hiscleatsdigdownintothegrass,kickingupdirtontohisbarecalves.
    Iendupshiveringintheshade.SoIstepoutontothepathandshieldmyeyesfromthesun.IspotJake andhiscrewatthetopofthebleachers.They’retheloudones.ItakeaquicklookaroundforJolenebut don’t see her. This is her kind of thing. Normally she’d be in the first bleacher, collecting looks and catcalls,dolingoutliddedeyesandhalfsmilestoselectadmirers.Acoupleofyearsagowe’dbewith her.Joleneatthecore,me,Bella,andKrisclusteredaroundher—theoriginalfour.
    Awhistleblows,bringingmebacktothegame.Cal’scarryingtheballoverforacornerkick,trash-talking the whole way. He gets smiles, shouts, and cracks back from each guy on the field. Each guy except for Hudson, that is. He’s in position in front of the goal, running up and back, trying to lose his man.Hekeepshiseyesonthecornerandhisfeetmoving.
    IcrossmyarmsagainstthecoldandrepeatthewordsI’mgoingtosayoverandoveragain.
    Cal finally takes the kick, sending the ball soaring in a perfect arc toward the far post. The goalie launches his body up in the air and spreads his fingers wide; but before he can get his gloved hands aroundtheball,Hudsonheadsitpasthim,intotheupper-rightcornerofthenet,forthegoal.Thevarsity teamexplodesinshoutsandslaps.Theyrushthecorner,formatightcircle,shoutoutachant,anddosome sortofdance.ButHudsondoesn’tjointhem.Hejustjogsslowlybacktomidfield,readyforthenextplay.
    Bella’s voice booms from the sideline. I don’t know how I missed her before. She’s doing her cheerleaderthing:elbowsbentandtighttoherbody,handspausingbetweenhardclaps,legskickingup aboveherwaistasshespellsCal’sname.Heturnstowardherfrommidfieldandbendshisbodyforward inadeepbow.Shereplieswithafewmoreclapsandsomewild“Wooo-hooos”beforerubbingherlips togetherandsmilingherself-proclaimedsee-you-later-for-something-yummysmile.Theymustbehooking upagain.They’vehadanon-and-offthinggoingformostofhighschool.
    IsearchtheinsideofmyjacketpocketasBellacheers,siftingthroughsparecoins,slipsofpaper,a tubeofChapStick.Jolene’slighter.Istillhaven’tseenJolene.Ilookoutoverthestandsagain,butallI