Sometimes

Homecoming

Brayden

The biggest game of the year.

Homecoming.

The second-largest dance of the year.

Homecoming.

Do you know who doesn't have a date for the homecoming dance? 

Brayden Lewis, the star football player.

Yeah, it's pathetic.

But who am I to bitch and moan about it? It's my fault after all. I'm just gonna forget about that and try to have a good time. But that's hard when your dad is constantly nudging and saying, "You need to get yourself a girlfriend."

Especially recently.

Ever since that day in the bathroom, Linus has been coming over a lot. I just tell my dad that he's here to study because he's really smart and knows a thing or two about astronomy. Which, all of that is true, don't get me wrong, but some other things definitely happening, too.

The other day he was over and we were studying for a big test, and I made a deal with him because I was bored out of my fucking mind. I told him that for each question I got right, he had to kiss me.

I answered one question. Correctly.

And with that one question, I got a kiss. 

And another.

And another.

Maybe I need to find another study partner.

But the problem is that I don't want to. I want to spend time with that boy. It seems like every time I close my eyes, I see him, and I don't know how to get him out of my damn mind. Not that I have any desire to. It's just that it's distracting when I'm supposed to be taking a math test and I see his smile when I try to think about the problem I have to solve. 

But I'll make do.

After all, I can't get enough of his kisses.

But I have to get him out of my head.

If I lose this next game for us, I'm going to be in deep shit, and I absolutely can't be letting my teammates down. They depend on me, some of them for scholarships, and others just so they don't get absolutely fucked up on the field. 

God, I've got a lot of weight on my shoulders.

I'm sitting in my room, going over the game plan in my head, trying not to focus on Linus for just one second, and it's kind of working until my parents call me downstairs to eat dinner. I hurry out to the kitchen, in all of its pastel 50s style glory. I slide into my chair and look down at the heaping plate of spaghetti before me. I look at the steam rising from it in dramatic billows and I begin to shovel it into my mouth as my mom says "Careful, it's hot."

But it's too late.

I spit the pasta out of my mouth with a quiet and breathy exclamation of "hot," and my mom looks at me with the look. I have no clue if it's disappointment or something else, but it definitely doesn't make me feel good about myself.

"What did I say, Brayden?" my mother asks me. "I told you to be careful."

"Sorry, mom," I say, looking back down at my food. The next bite I take, I'm extremely careful to blow on it.

We sit in absolute silence for a few minutes, minus the occasional shuffle of a chair, before my dad checks his watch and says, "Darla, I've gotta get going." He stands up and begins to put on a coat.

"I thought you were gonna come to the game," I say, quietly, not looking up at him. I focus very intensely on the shrinking pile of spaghetti on my plate, trying desperately not to draw attention to myself. Yeah, I know I'm making an assumption, but when my dad hasn't come to a single one of my football games since freshman year, it's a pretty fair one.