Free Every Last Promise by Kristin Halbrook

around me. I feel small and tinny under their comments, and if I could walk away without consequences, I would. But turning my back means they win. It means I’ll never be the Kayla I used to be.
    â€œYou’re going down, bitch.” One of their voices sails over to me.
    â€œCareful, that’s the killa you’re talking to,” someone else says.
    â€œWatch out,” Selena says in a low voice, just loud enough so I can hear. I can’t tell if the warning is malicious or if she’s actually concerned.
    Across the field, Jen watches us as she adjusts the drawstring in her shorts. Not participating. Not stopping it, either. I am so far away from being able to guess what she’s thinking, that it’s hard to believe we were best friends.
    I step forward again, closer to Selena. “You too.”
    The homecoming court—Jen and Selena and two girlswho are not me—was voted on the third day of school after a whirlwind campaign of cupcakes, stickers, and empty promises of friendship in exchange for votes. The winners were announced during fifth period the next day. Some people, like Jay and Jen, were shoo-ins from the beginning. I would have been, too, probably. In a different life. But now, the four girls who still belong to this town are called out onto the field, and everyone’s attention shifts away from me. I jog slowly in place to warm up as they pick captains. Jen’s one of them, holding her yellow flags in two hands.
    The rest of us line up along the fifty yard line and wait. I will Jen to look at me. Remember the promise we made each other last year?
    She doesn’t look at me.
    But Maria, the other captain, does. And she picks first.
    â€œKayla Martin,” she says without hesitating.
    I pretend I get why she picked me first as I sprint over amid hoots and jeers from the field and the stands, take my red flag, and secure it around my waist. My face burns, so I stare at the ground so they can’t see. Maybe it’s a pity move. Or Maria wants someone she knows can catch a football. Probably, though, she picked me to be a dedicated battering ram.
    The teams begin to fill out. Jen picks Selena first. My team huddles before we all take our places on the field. Arms drape over every shoulder but mine.
    Mrs. Armstrong, our PE teacher, waits, her silver whistle dangling from her mouth.
    â€œOkay, ladies,” Maria says into our small circle of girls, her breathing picking up. “I’m QBing. Hannah, Riley, Fiona, Sarah, and Mel, you’re my lineswomen. Patsy, I want you as running back. Kayla, you’re going wide. Everyone else . . . just find something useful to do. Let’s do this thing.”
    We clap and emerge from our huddle. Take our positions at the 50-yard line as Hannah is handed the football and drops into a high crouch. We don’t do kickoffs in powder-puff. I pick a spot on the far left of our line and look at the player assigned to cover me.
    It’s Jen.
    My mouth goes dry. I press my weight into the balls of my feet and tear my eyes away from the hard challenge on her face.
    Mrs. Armstrong blows the whistle and the stands erupt in cheers. My pulse throbs in my neck, rushes through my limbs. Static and words of some sort blare out over the PA system. Sounds are muddied as I trace the route I’ll take on the field with my eyes.
    â€œHike!” Maria yells, and I sprint straight at Jen, fake inside, then blow by on her left-hand side, watching over my shoulder as Maria launches the football in my direction. I’m wide open. I make the catch, tuck the ball under my arm, and face the end zone, just as a pair of hands grabs my ankle.Pain shoots up my leg and my vision dazzles black and spotty white. I slam, whole-body, into the ground, my breath flying out of me, but hang on to the ball.
    Mrs. Armstrong blasts her whistle.
    â€œSorry, Mrs. Armstrong,” Jen says, getting up from her dive. “I was aiming for the