Team Spirit

23. Sam Plays Cool

23. Sam Plays Cool

Pete squints into the sun. And runs a red light.

I know better than to say anything and, besides, nobody else is on the road so early in the morning. There's nobody to honk or T-bone us.

Pete remains unfazed, reaching over to spit into a Gatorade bottle, the brown tobacco-tinged saliva sloshing around in the bottom of it. Like I need any help feeling sick to my stomach.

"You okay, Sam?" Pete asks, "you're as jittery as a chicken on the chopping block."

Yeah, 'cause I'm sitting in an ancient Mercedes with a maniac at the wheel.

"First tournament," I mumble, clutching my gym bag closer against my chest.

"You've been a wreck for longer than that," Pete insists.

Have I? Is it that obvious? Can everybody see right through me like looking through a window? They can stare right through to the other side?

Except, of course not, 'cause if my family figures out the truth of it, I'll hear about it. I'll never hear the end of it.

"You broke up with Lars?" Pete asks but I get the impression it's not really a question. This is what it'll be like if anybody finds out about Leo. In 60 seconds flat, the whole damn town will know. It'll spread like a disease across Murphy. My sister will find out while painting someone's toenails. Pete will find out from the bartender of The Hitching Post. Mom and Dad will find out over post-church punch.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"I guess so."

"Look, Sammy, I've had a couple girlfriends—"

All I do is groan. What I really need right now is a pep talk about girls from my wingman brother pretending we are somehow alike. Even if I liked girls, Pete in the driver's seat is something completely different from me. He chews his tobacco and adjusts his leather jacket and ruffles his hair. And he looks easy. It's easy to be Pete Sanders. It's effortless. Easier than being Sam.

His eyebrows rise from behind his aviators.

"90% of the time, it's the shittiest thing. The breaking up, I mean. And you can eat a whole tub of ice cream if you need to. It's bullshit that girls get to binge and wear pajamas all day. You're allowed to be upset about it, Sam."

"I messed up," I say, then quieter, "have you ever ate a whole tub of ice cream?"

Pete shrugs. "Sure. After Janelle Hanley. I mean, I also drank a bottle of whiskey, but yeah."

Despite the permission, my guts still feel knotted. Half hitch, clove hitch, figure eight, bend. Do I have the right to be upset? After what I said?

There's not enough time to dwell on it. Pete pulls into the school parking lot where the big yellow bus is waiting. In matching orange and green, a handful of kids already wait in line outside it, coaches overlooking. Hannah, Casey, Chantelle, Roman.

"So, pick you up Sunday?" Pete asks.

"Yeah." I swallow and climb out of the car, shrugging the strap of my bag over my shoulder. "Thanks, Pete."

I file into the line.

Within fifteen or so minute, everybody else arrives. The line up looks suspiciously prison-like, all us kids in matching hoodies and badly fit track pants, pretty haggard from the early morning.

Coaches tick off all our names, double-check permission slips, all the legal stuff. Then, the doors of the pull finally open. With the clang of stiff hinges, the realization hits.