Free Over the End Line by Alfred C. Martino

lunch."
    "Mom didn't give you any?" Kyle said.
    "Just give me some. You don't want me anorexic, do ya?"
    Someone knocked on the trunk. Trinity and the girl from Redemption Bridge walked by. My stomach swirled.
    "Who's that?" I said to Stephanie.
    She shook her head, dismissively. "The sweet aroma of sophomore girls arousing the carnivores. Pathetic, just pathetic."
    Kyle slapped a ten-dollar bill in her hand. "You owe me."
    "As the younger sibling of the famous Kyle Saint-Claire, I owe you for every day of my life," Stephanie said. "I just thank God for being part of your gene pool."
    "It's your first day," Kyle said. "Try not to get in tumble Mom and Dad don't need the hassle. Most important—and get this through your thick skull—don't embarrass me. Now leave, wiseass."
    "Stephanie, who's that?" I said again.
    She squeezed out from behind my seat, giving me another why-are-you-talking-to-me look. "The new girl."
    "What's her name?"
    "The. New. Girl. No need for you to know anything else, Jonny-boy," Stephanie said. She called out to Trinity, who offered a quick wave but never broke stride.
    ***
    The school was loud and frenzied, churning with juniors and seniors seeing friends for the first time since last June, and sophomores, with their deer-in-the-headlights looks, searching for homerooms. Kyle and I moved along with the flow of traffic, then parted ways. He went down one hallway, high-fiving and slapping hands with guys on the team, while I went down another.
    The fresh faces. The excitement. For a second, I thought something
did
feel different, like I was somehow taller, or more mature. Maybe my mom was right. I was a
senior.
Maybe that had more status than I realized. I'd play in most of our games and, hopefully, chalk up a few goals and assists. Some decent college would accept me. Fall and winter would pass, then spring, and before I knew it, my time at Millburn High would come to a quiet, if not pleasant, end.
    Piece of cake.
    But seeing Sloan Ruehl smacked me back to reality. She stood by an open locker, surrounded by the group of girls people at school called her "band of bitches." One of them would say something, then wait for Sloan to smile or frown, laugh or shake her head, smirk or roll her eyes. Then they'd all do the same.
    Sloan was at the top of our class and the top of the ladder. She was pretty, privileged, and had a reputation for drinking like a fish. It was well known that she started last year's ritual of Friday liquid lunches—a can of Diet Coke spiked with Bacardi—that ended abruptly when one of her bitches passed out in chemistry class.
    At the other end of the hallway, I noticed Abigail Blonski walking our way. People thought Abigail was fat. Most called her a dog. Last year, she and I were assigned an AP bio class project together. I thought she was quirky (in a good way) and kind of funny. She planned on going to FIT for fashion merchandising. But none of that mattered. Abigail surely hung from one of the lowest rungs.
    Abigail must've seen Sloan, because she immediately moved to the opposite side of the hallway, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, eyes down. Yet when she got close, Sloan's bitches turned in her direction.
    "Fatty," one of them sneered. Another hissed something about her clothes, or her acne, or whatever deficiency du jour they wanted to mock. Then they all burst out laughing. People stopped and stared.
    Abigail hurried down the hallway past me.
    "Are you all right?" I said to her, but she didn't look my way. I wanted to say something more, but she had already disappeared into the stairwell.
    It was my turn to pass through the gauntlet.
    I stared at Sloan, expecting a look of disgust to spread across her face as a very real indication that I had deluded myself into thinking this year would be any different from last year. Sloan looked at me, too. But, strangely, there wasn't contempt or nastiness on her face. Even her bitches seemed to quiet. As I walked