Free Shuffle, Repeat by Jen Klein Page A

actually nervous?” I ask in response to his comment. “I thought you people lived for Friday nights.”
    “We
people
do,” he says, emphasizing to let me know what he thinks of my painting all athletes with the same brush.
    But let’s be honest: the brush fits.
    “It’s still a lot of pressure,” Oliver explains. “If you fumble or something, there are literally hundreds of people watching.”
    “Yeah, but if you score a home run—”
    “Touchdown.”
    “—then everyone cheers.”
    “That part isn’t so bad.” Oliver changes topic. “Do you know our moms are going out tomorrow?”
    “Yeah. There’s a new restaurant they want to try.”
    “Do you think they talk about us?”
    That makes me laugh. “God, what else would they
have
to talk about?”
    “Well, I’m sure your mother is a font of fascinating debate. My mom on the other hand…I don’t know. Meat loaf recipes? The original Kinkade my dad bought her?”
    “Your dad bought her a mixer?”
    “That’s a
Kitchen
Aid. Kinkade is an artist.”
    “Oh.” It’s a little embarrassing. After all, my mother is an artist, too. I should know these things. Also, Oliver has this big smile on his face because he’s oh so amused at my lack of knowledge about the Fancy Ways of life.
    Oliver sees my look. He reaches over and pats my leg. “Don’t worry. You’re cooler for
not
knowing Kinkade. Strip malls carry his work in bulk. Your mom’s art is authentic. No mass productions, no marketing campaigns. I like her stuff.”
    “What do you know about my mom’s work?”
    “You do realize we’ve known each other since birth, right?”
    “I guess. I just…” I stop and think about it. I suppose I do know quite a bit about Oliver’s family. His mom, Marley, is my mom’s best friend. His father, Bryant, is a developer of many gated communities, including fancy-schmancy Flaggstone Lakes, where they all live. His older brother, Owen, is now in college in North Carolina.
    “What?” Oliver asks.
    “I’m surprised you like my mom’s art,” I tell him. “Especially given your terrible taste in music.”
    • • •
    Shaun wends his hatchback through throngs of students wielding giant foam fingers and parents carrying hand-painted signs. We find a parking space and he turns to me with a face that is all kinds of serious. “You love me, right?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Here’s the thing. I’m different at football games than I am with you and Darbs and Lily.”
    “I know, I know. You’re a rainbow.”
    “
Such
a rainbow.” Shaun pulls off his hat to reveal a giant mop of red-and-blue hair.
    I gawk at him. It’s supremely hideous. “Please tell me that’s a wig.”
    “It’s a wig. Isn’t it fantastic?”
    It takes me a second to find the words. “It definitely shows school spirit.”
    “Exactly,” says Shaun. “On Friday nights, I have school spirit.”
    I look down at my own outfit: black tunic over leggings, high-top Chucks. Decidedly not spirited. “I can live with that.”
    At the gate, a twenty-something security guard rifles through my messenger bag. “What are you looking for?” I ask him.
    “Drugs. Booze.”
    “I don’t have either of those.”
    “Cool.” He waves me through.
    Shaun and I have to walk along the track to get to the bleachers. It’s much louder and more crowded than I ever would have guessed. The marching band is already in their section, playing what I assume is a fight song. Ainsley and the other cheerleaders are out in front, waving and kicking and bouncing. We thread our way through packs of young kids eating hot dogs and parents carrying vinyl seat cushions and students vibrating with pep and anticipation. Everything smells like popcorn.
    I let Shaun lead me to a seat in the center of the bleachers. “Wow, so this is what the world looks like from here,” I say to him, and he elbows me in the ribs.
    “Okay, turn to me,” he orders. I do and his eyes rove over my face for several seconds. He looks