Short Stories (bxb)

The Art of Feeling Small Pt. 2: Indanthrone Blue

big shout out to the loml, philline, for literally naming this story for me :,) 

xxx

If someone asked me what I had done in the last hour, I wouldn't be able to tell them.

     I wasn't drunk; I'd yet to make it through the White Claw some guy had shoved against my chest the moment I reached the tailgate. But I felt as if I'd been stumbling through a fog ever since Mack dragged me out here, and the faces, jokes, cheers, and games that had flown by me were an indistinct blur. People were smiling at me, greeting me, clapping me on the back, so I returned their smiles and joined in on their laughter. I vaguely remembered being absorbed into a group of guys I knew and having blue stripes slicked across my cheeks. At some point, one of them introduced me to a pretty girl wearing a tiny blue Whitman shirt and an even tinier gold skirt, and I must have entertained her enough, because she was still on my arm now. Mack was nowhere to be seen, but that was expected of him -- he was the kind of guy who knew everyone, and it was impossible to keep track of him at parties.

     By the time the girl -- Haley -- and I made it into the stadium, I was thinking about snagging the apple-juice bottle in her handbag (she had whisper-yelled to me that it was filled with Jack Daniels) and making a run for it. The noise from the stands was already giving me a headache and the game hadn't even started yet. Every time a drunken boy pushed past me, my skin crawled at the feeling of his damp shirt sliding against my arm. And the lights, the stadium lights, had they always been so bright?

     An arm around my shoulder jostled me, and I turned, pushing a grin, to see the familiar face of my old friend Dennis.

     "Look who I found!" Mack was all-smiles and already slurring his words.

     "Santos!" Dennis cried, and I got the feeling he was holding onto me for support more than comradery. "Long time no see, man!"

     "You're pretty bold, hanging around this side of the stands in red and black," I said, giving him a playful nudge (off of me). The Whitman-Carvell rivalry wasn't something to take lightly.

     "Like I'm scared," Dennis scoffed, flexing his biceps. Long gone was the wiry, nervous kid I had met freshman year. "Maybe you should be, though. You're looking a little skinny, man. You been keeping up with the gym?"

     Yeah, no, I wanted to leave.

     "Oh, and what's this I hear about you ditching the house?"

     Like, right now.

     But I couldn't. I was stuck balancing my attention between Dennis, whose idea of catching up was interrogating me about everything that had changed; Haley, who kept tripping over her drunken feet and giggling when I caught her; and Mack, who was trying to get me engaged in trash-talking the Carvell team.

      Somewhere at the back of my mind, it occured to me that I had missed Dennis, despite his probing. His sly comments were just as funny now as they had been two years ago, and the pride in his eyes when I told him how far I'd come in my studies was genuine. Somewhere, I recognized that Haley was incredibly sweet when she wasn't falling over, and would probably make for a good time sober. Somewhere, I acknowledged how amusing the smack-talk showdown between Mack and Dennis was, and even thought up a few jabs myself.

     Somewhere, or maybe once upon a time, this was a fun night. Good energy and high spirits. Fun people, new and old. A game that promised to be exciting.

     But right here, right now, I was getting draged around, hazy-eyed. I was working on autopilot. This game was a memory I would fail to make. Mack was smiling at me, and I smiled back, and I just knew he was elated that I was here, elated that I was laughing and chatting and having a good time.