The Boy I Hate

Thirty One.

I went into my senior year with certain expectations. I expected to spend it with Richard and my east side friends, getting burgers, going to sports games, and cheering at pep rallies. It didn't happen exactly like that. Actually, not even close to that. Sure, I did attend a few baseball games and cheer my fair share of pep rallies. However, at the same time I was toilet-papering houses and lighting the school on fire. All with the boy I hated.

It was better this way. I thought so, at least.

Tonight it was the big championship game, and I'd still be going. The only difference would be which jersey number I painted on my face.

There's really not much to say about the big game. In light of the fight, the reconciliation, and my bruised eye - the atmosphere was absent of the hostility I knew so well. Nobody nearly broke into a brawl on the sidelines, and players weren't mysteriously injured. Instead it was just so high school. Kids cheering "I believe that we will win," singing to every walk up song, and getting snacks between innings. Everything I'd wished my year would be and more. So much more.

Margie, Lily, Elizabeth, and I decided not to sit in either student section. We stood the whole time, gripping the fence with our fingers and cheering anytime either team got a run. Charlie winked at me a couple times from the pitcher's mound - that was new. I'd wanted to give him a kiss good luck, but we still seemed too fresh. Was he my boyfriend? Was he just a guy I kissed one time in my bed after a mild injury? I hoped to talk to him about it after the game. He was walking me home. Either way, Rich was around. I didn't want to rub this in his face just yet.

The game was neck and neck, but nobody expected anything different. East Port Academy and West High were equal in skill, and also effort. Every boy was dripping with sweat by the seventh inning - the last of them for a high school league. They were tied. East was up to bat, and time would surely run out before three outs. Meaning if West could keep them from scoring just until the clock hit zero, we'd enter overtime. But if East got a run? That was it.

Charlie was up to pitch, and Rich was up to bat; both teams putting their best foot forward. I bit my nails. Everybody was on the edge of their seat. If this wasn't the most epic ending to a high school rivalry in history I didn't know what was.

Before Charlie threw the ball I didn't miss the nod the boys sent each other. One of understanding, if not respect. A lot of words were in that nod. Acknowledgment that they'd had a good run, but it was time the dice stopped rolling. Perhaps a memory passed between them of all the times they'd traded baseball cards or passed a ball around. They taught each other to love this game. That fact couldn't be lost on them.

The ego in me hoped Richard sent approval through that nod. Approval of Charlie for me.

It was over in a second though, and then it was business. Charlie took his stance, revved his arm, and threw. When I was with Richard at these games I'd never really had the chance to pay attention to Charles. Back then he was just a figure from my past. Now I noticed. He stuck his tongue out to the side when he threw, in concentration. That was cute. I almost didn't notice the ball fly.

The first was a strike, setting some dread over East's student section. Richard dug his feet into the ground a little harder, tightening his fist around the bat. I spared a glance at the scout from NYU. He was paying close attention, of course. I hoped Charlie was impressing him. I prayed.

The second however, hit with a loud clang, echoing through the field. It didn't go out of bounds, nor did it land seamlessly into an outfielder's glove. It went over the fence. It was a home run hit.

As much as I wished success for Richard, my smile faltered. He ran around the bases proudly while the East Academy student section roared. On the other hand, the west side kid's shoulders sank. Charlie's in particular.