Looking At Us

7. cris

'‘Your brother’s pretty good at soccer,’’ said Kevin. ‘‘How come you don’t play?’’

     I shrugged. ‘‘Guess it doesn’t run in the family much. Troy did a bit. Darrin’s insane about it, though.’’ 

     ‘‘Yeah, that’s obvious,’’ Kevin said, shrugging his massive shoulders. He was in grade eleven like me but he was built like a football player. He had light blond hair—he was Swedish—and big blue eyes. 

     On the field, Darrin scored a goal. 

     On the bleachers, two rows up from me, I could hear Sasha cheering for him. 

     On the field, some guy swore at Darrin. 

     I received a text on my phone. Megan. No way. That awkward conversation we’d had last night had totally jarred me; I hadn’t expected her to say anything to me ever again. I mean, it was innocent flirting. 

     It’s not everyday you almost run over a pretty girl. 

     The crowd cheered as someone else scored a goal, possibly my brother again. I stared at the text from Megan. 

     I see you. 

     ‘‘That’s creepy,’’ Kevin said, reading over my shoulder. ‘‘Who’s that from?’’ 

     ‘‘Nobody, you stalker,’’ I replied. ‘’Go away.’’ 

     Megan texted me again: I am looking right at you. 

     Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder, down the row of bleachers, but I couldn’t find a blond head that looked like hers. However, I did see that blue toque of her friend’s . . . what was her name? Sheila? Shawne? They always hung out together. I figured Megan would be around her. 

     Another goal on the field. 

     Another text. 

     Cris. 

     Not from Megan. 

     It was Emily, my older sister, telling me that she needed my truck because she had to go meet her date now. I told her that she wasn’t allowed to drive my Chevy. Emily complained. I said that I’d drive her. She met me on the other side of the field. 

     Darrin was taking a water break when we passed him, his hair snarled and sticky, his chestnut eyes filled with anger and pride, stars and suns. 

     He took my elbow as we passed. ‘‘See that kid?’’

     ‘‘Which kid?’’

     ‘‘The tall one with brown hair. Number seventeen on the blue team.’’ 

     I nodded. ‘‘Yeah.’’ 

     Darrin’s eyes were feral. 

     ‘‘He’s getting past me all the time. He’s scoring all the goals,’’ he snarled. ‘‘He’s a candy-ass, and he’s thrashing me. I want to kill him.’’ 

     The referee called subs-in and Darrin walked away. ‘‘Listen to me, Cris. I want to kill him. I’m going. To kill. Him.’’ 

     Number seventeen—the tall kid with brown hair—looked up. His eyes were green, green, green. He stared at me as though he could hear our conversation, begging, pleading, imploring me for help that could never come.