“And that’s never going to change unless you try.”
“I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
He chuckles. “I’m a big boy.”
The night, which has turned quite cold considering how hot the day was, sends a shiver down my spine. After another nudge, I stand and walk over. My dad always knows when to push and when to back off. I needed that push.
The student section is pretty full, so I squeeze my way down several rows. Faces that hold no history for me flash by, their most prominent features lingering in my mind for a moment or two—bright red hair, a large nose, green eyes, a gap-toothed smile. Finally, I find an empty seat next to a guy wearing cowboy boots and a wool-lined jean jacket. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he watches the game intently.
“Excuse me, are you saving this?”
He looks up. Long lashes surround chocolate brown eyes. “No, have a seat,” he says in the Southern accent that prevails here.
I sit down. “Thanks. And can we just get this out of the way? Your eyelashes make mine want to commit suicide from shame.” Yeah. I’m not very good at small talk.
He laughs.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”
“Never put like that …” He looks around. “You here alone?”
“Well, sort of. My dad’s over there.” I nod my head toward my dad. “You?”
“No. See those idiots right there?” He points to the front railing, where several guys stand shirtless with painted chests and wigs on. “Those are my friends.”
All his friends are making fools of themselves, and he’s not. Right away that says almost everything I need to know about him: He’s not a follower, he can make up his own mind, and he’s perfectly okay with sitting alone. “Why aren’t you participating?”
“Because a coat of paint doesn’t conceal my layer of fat very well.”
I give him a quick once-over. He looks like he’s in good shape, but it’s hard to tell with his jacket on. I glance back at his friends. “It’s not doing them any favors either,” I note.
He smiles. “Plus, it’s cold tonight.”
“Your layer of fat is supposed to help with that.”
“True.” A whistle sounds, and he turns his attention back to the field. The quarterback snaps the ball and is almost immediately tackled in a hard hit near the thirty-yard line. I suck air between my teeth.
“I’m Trevor, by the way,” he says, now that the play is over.
“Addie.”
“Addie?”
“Yes, short for Addison.”
“Do you go to this school, Addison?”
The fact that he has to ask makes me realize it must be a very big high school. I may not have known everyone’s name at my old school, but I would easily recognize a new face. “My father and I just moved here. I start school on Monday.”
“Ah, very good. Welcome to Dallas.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a senior?”
“Junior. You?”
“Senior.” His gaze goes back to the game. My attention is drawn to the sidelines, where a person dressed up in a large cougar costume runs circles around the cheerleaders. We have a mascot at Lincoln High too—a lightning bolt. And thanks to the Perceptives, I’ve heard most home games include an actual lightning show (probably to divert the attention from the boringness happening on the field).
I cringe when the play ends in a bone-crushing pileup.
“You don’t like football?” Trevor asks.
“Actually, I like this kind better. It’s more exciting.”
“More exciting than …”
“Um, than flag football,” I say, proud I remembered another version so quickly. This whole business of not letting things about the Compound slip is going to be harder than I thought. It had been my entire life, after all.
“You’ve watched a game of flag football before?”
“Well, no, but this is more exciting than that, you have to admit.”
“A lot of things are more exciting than flag football.”
“True.”
The rest of the game passes in comfortable silence interspersed with a few comments. By the end I’ve adopted his closed-off position of hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The final whistle sounds, and his friends rush toward him, a rowdy mass of painted bodies. I try to slip away, but one of them stops me with a loud, “Hi, who are you?”
I start to answer, but Trevor is faster. “Guys, this is Addison. She’s new here.”
“Just Addie is fine,” I say, but my voice is swallowed by their boisterous hellos.
He goes on to list several names. To remember names, I usually advance my memory by relating the person’s name to one of their physical features, but since theirs are covered in paint, I won’t remember who is who after tonight. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you on Monday.” Again, I attempt to leave. The same guy who stopped me before—Rowan, with red stripes of paint down his face—stops me again by saying, “We all party at Trevor’s after the game. You should come.”
I really don’t want to hang out with a bunch of Norm guys I don’t know. I check the time on my cell phone. Nine thirty. Still too early to claim tiredness or curfew restrictions.
“Didn’t you say your dad wanted you home early tonight to help unpack?” Trevor says, surprising me. Was my body language that obvious?