Chapter 8

September 6, 1986

I spent the last three days trying not to think about today. Thinking about it distracted me and between school starting and trying to make the football team, I had no room for distractions. The pre-AP classes were more challenging than I expected; not challenging mentally, just challenging time-wise – the work I had to do for homework wasn't hard but did take up considerable amounts of time. Football was a pretty much set schedule, but it did leave me tired much of the time; I hoped that would go away as I became more used to the added physical exertion. I just didn't have time to be distracted.

I did make exceptions, of course; I wasn't a complete idiot. I spent as much time with Mikayla as I could. I wasn't much of a ladies man as Alex but one thing I knew that could destroy a relationship – especially a relationship that hadn't really started yet – was inattention. I made sure that Mikayla knew that when we were together, I was listening to her and there for her. It really wasn't much but relationships often teetered on the smallest of things.

Mikayla and I were in a strange place; not really a couple but starting to transcend our friendship. It was an area that was fraught with peril and any misstep could crush it before it even had life ... but being with her was so easy and so emotionally rewarding that I couldn't stay away. In many ways, this was the most promising relationship I'd ever experienced; Mikayla knew me for who and what I was and she accepted me. That was a heady feeling to have.

Well, she mostly knew me for who and what I was. She didn't know about my past as Alex – but I'd come to the conclusion that no one could know about Alex. At least, not yet. Maybe someday in the future, maybe the woman I married, but Mikayla wasn't ready for that. Heck, I wasn't ready for anyone to know. I felt bad about the dishonesty but I was positive that it couldn't be helped.

Coach Holcomb gave me a copy of the playbook on Wednesday and I'd pretty much memorized it by Thursday. I couldn't acknowledge Alex but his memory tricks came in incredibly handy. I didn't bother with a memory palace; memory palaces were things I needed to store long term and this didn't qualify. I'd need to know the playbook for the next few years, maybe, but not beyond that. If I was good enough to make it to college ball I'd have to learn a new playbook and if I wasn't I wouldn't need to remember my high school playbook anyway. So, I just used plain old mnemonic tricks and mental diagramming. Since I'd be using the knowledge every day for a while, that should be all the reinforcement I needed.

Wednesday practice went a bit better than Tuesday's since I knew what to expect; I was still exhausted at the end but it was a good exhausted and I recovered a little quicker than the day before. I did make some mistakes, especially running my routes, but that was expected. It's one of the reasons I spent so much time memorizing the playbook – there were no mistakes on Thursday. I ran my routes well and caught just about everything that came anywhere near me.

Even knowing the playbook backwards and forwards wasn't enough, though; much of the success I was having was due to my Dad. Wednesday evening, Dad took me out front and showed me each of the plays I was memorizing. He'd sit there, explain them from a wide receiver's perspective and then show me the route I had to run, where I had to block, how to block and even how to deal with the push on the line (the defense can pretty much push a receiver around within 5 yards of the line of scrimmage). He was patient and never failed to answer the questions I had and watching him run the routes, limping on his bad leg, made me want to play harder so that he would be proud of me. He was enduring pain to teach me everything he knew.

The rest of my success I can attribute to Oracle and Posey; the two of them worked so hard every play that I couldn't give any less. They never took a play off, even when they knew the ball wasn't coming to them. It was impressive to see and I tried to style myself after them; I wanted them to know that they could count on me; that I would do the work just like them and not like Maven.

Maven didn't run full out unless he was the first option and, since this was practice, guaranteed to get the ball. Otherwise, he jogged giving only minimal effort. There were a few plays that he didn't even bother running; he went and got himself a cup of water instead. It was more than a little maddening but there was nothing I could say; I was the new kid and if the coaches were willing to let him get away with it, what could I do?

Oracle and Posey were the epitome of teammates. They congratulated me when I did well and explained what they thought I did wrong when I didn't do so well. Coach McRory always listened to them first before adding his own thoughts. I could tell that the assistant coach valued their insight and feedback. It might have also made us a stronger team.

Maven never said a word. He was one of those people who didn't believe there was an 'I' in team – but there was definitely a 'ME'. The guy only looked out for himself – and I didn't think that was the way to play a team sport. It should be all about winning, no matter who got the stats for the win. Instead, it just seemed like it was all about Maven and how good he was. Selfish and arrogant, I couldn't see why the coaches pandered to him.

Until Friday. We had an inter-squad scrimmage on Friday, offense versus defense. It was the closest we were going to get to a real game before our first real game two weeks away. It was also a pretty good test; both sides played from the same playbook so, other than the randomness of play calling, we each knew what the other side had up their sleeve.

The rules were simple. If the defense ever managed to stop the offense without scoring, they got 7 points. If the offense scored a touchdown, it was worth 6 points with an extra kick for the extra point. If the offense kicked a field goal, they got 7 points. High score was the winner and carried bragging rights.

At least, the official prize was bragging rights. The unofficial prize was basically slavery. The winner picked a person from the opposing side and could get them to do pretty much anything they wanted (within reason and legality, of course) for the next week. The punishments were supposedly fairly innocuous – fetching drinks, washing cars, carrying books from room to room in school. It was all pretty much in good fun though there was the occasional hazing.

The scrimmage was far more brutal than I thought. I had assumed that we would all respect each other; that we would take it easy on one another to avoid an injury. I was wrong. Other than the quarterback, there was no pulling punches from either side and, surprisingly, the coaches demanded it be that way. They believed we needed to see what a real game was going to be like so they demanded we deliver.

It was here that I suddenly gained an appreciation for Maven's talents. He may have screwed around in practice but he was a madman on the field. He was everywhere, running flat out, hitting people to block for Longhew, catching things he had no right catching. The defense couldn't contain him; heck, most of them couldn't even catch him. It seemed he had at least two gears: practice and 'oh my god, what was that blur?'

The defense started cheating a bit, double-teaming Maven with a safety. Personally, I think they were just trying to stop Maven from winning the game all on his own. He had already scored 3 times on them in the first quarter. They stopped him two other times but he still managed to pick up an amazing amount of yardage before they brought him down.

Of course, double-teaming Maven left things open for Posey and me; Posey was 2^nd receiver and I was 3^rd. Oracle was the fourth in our four receiver sets. This was a bit of a mismatch; as good as Maven was, Posey was faster, had longer reach and almost as good hands. I was amazed that it slowed us down at all, but it didn't slow us down by much. It seemed the quarterback was more used to Maven; he over- and under-threw Posey a few times.

They were down 35 to 7 by halftime. In the third quarter, they changed to a zone defense; it allowed them to cover Maven and Posey, moving people into place if the ball were in the air to either of them. They managed to stop us on the first series but Quincy Chatham, our quarterback, started finding me after that. I wasn't getting the same obscene yards that Maven and Posey were chewing up but I was still killing them 5 to 15 yards at a time. By the end of the game, the offense had trounced the defense something like 105 to 21; I honestly thing we stopped keeping score before we hit the fourth quarter. The offense was just clicking on all cylinders; I managed to get in for two touchdowns and Longhew, our running back, managed four or five of his own.

As the newest member of the team, I was the last to get a pick of the defensive squad – so I got the leftovers. It turned out to be Freddy Canterberg, Janey and Jamie – my sister's best friend's – brother. I spouted off a bit to him, rubbing salt in the wound like the others had done before me, but I didn't intend on taking advantage of things. It was bad enough that they lost, he didn't need me to pile on.

I expected there to be some slack in school the first week but I was to be disappointed. Evidently, teachers take the AP course work extremely seriously. I had what the teachers considered an hour of homework every night for each of my AP classes. Luckily, I was able to complete most of it early though I admit some of it stumped me more than a little; mostly, it was just things like essay answers where I could only go as fast as I could write or geometry problems where I had to show my work. I didn't end up getting to bed very early on any night and sometimes I got as little as 4 hours of sleep.

Friday was our first lab in Biology. It was pretty tame, actually; we had to observe some amoebas and draw a diagram of them including any inter-cellular structures we found. Once the drawings were complete, we had to look up the structures we found in our books and label them. I think the whole thing was a test; Mrs. Fisher was looking to see who the real students were in our group and who was likely to wash out. Attention to detail was going to be a necessity in this class; Mrs. Fisher may have been whimsical and carefree but she seemed to be a stickler for teaching the students what they needed to know.

I was halfway done with my drawing when I happened to look over to Mikayla. I couldn't help it; my thoughts turned to our date and I just had to look at her. I wasn't all that happy with what I saw.

Jim had his arm around Mikayla's shoulder, pointing something out to her in the book. She was shrugging fitfully and, when he didn't get the hint, she moved away and took his arm off her shoulder. She said something to him and he raised both hands defensively. I watched as she took a red rose that had been lying on the desk and flung it on the table in front of him.

"What happened in there?" I asked her as we walked back to our lockers. I could tell she was still a little ticked off.

"When?" she said, looking at me crossly. When her eyes met mine, though, they softened. "Nothing, really. Nothing I can't handle."

"Are you sure?" I asked. "I can help if you like."

"I can fight my own battles, Chance," she snarled and walked ahead of me to her locker, flinging it open loudly. I had stopped when she snarled at me but I started catching up when I saw her head tilt down.

"I'm sorry," she said, tears in her eyes. "I didn't mean to take it out on you. I just..."

"He gave me a rose just after we started our lab," she sniffed. "He said it was a combination thank you for being there for him when his Dad passed away and to apologize for the way he had behaved afterward. He said he'd been in a tough place and was feeling lost and kind of used me for an anchor but he didn't know when to stop."

"I thought it was kind of weird but nice, so I thanked him and we went on with our lab," she continued. "While we were working, it just seemed like he was constantly touching me. I mean, I couldn't point it out or anything but it just seemed like there was a lot of accidental touching. I let it go, thinking maybe I was just too sensitive about it. Then, when we were looking up structures in the book he put his arm around me and ... it just felt kind of creepy so I pulled away and told him to back off. He said he didn't mean anything by it, he was just trying to show me the structure in the book. I guess I kind of over-reacted; looking back on it, it did seem innocent and all ... but it felt really just... wrong at the time. So, I threw the rose back at him and ... I ... I was just kind of upset."

"You had every reason to be upset, Mikayla," I said softly, taking her hand gently in my own. I felt like pulling her into a hug but I thought that might be conveying the wrong message just then. I guess I can be sensitive when I have to be. "I saw it and ... well, I guess I got kind of jealous. It didn't look right ... it didn't even look like two friends studying. I think I'll have a talk with him, let him know that it isn't appropriate and..."

"No, Chance!" Mikayla said vehemently. "I told you, I can fight my own battles. I just jumped to the wrong conclusion; I'm sure he won't do it again."

"Mikayla, I'll back off if that's what you want," I started, trying to work my way through the words. "But you're just making excuses for him. Buying a red rose for you was ... well, kind of inappropriate. However innocent he made it sound, buying a rose – especially a red rose – even for just a friend isn't right. He may have made it sound innocent, but I don't think he was being truthful. Then, later, when he put his arm around you? That was just ... way inappropriate and makes me even more suspicious of the rose he gave you."

Mikayla paused for a moment, then closed her eyes and sighed. "Yeah. I can see it but ... I kind of feel guilty, you know? I mean, I was his best friend growing up and then, when his Dad died, I kind of just stopped. I mean, there was probably a better way I could have handled it. Maybe sat him down and explained I just didn't feel that way for him; I don't know. But I've always felt guilty..."

"You were 9 or 10 at the time," I said softly, looking into her eyes. "It wasn't your fault. You were just trying to protect yourself from a situation you saw as bad. I mean, apologize to him if you want but don't beat yourself up about it."

She smiled at me. "I know. You're right. I'll take care of it." She grabbed my arm and pulled it into a hug. "Hey, do you think if I stayed for your scrimmage your Mom or Dad could drive me home tonight?"

"Uh, sure, I don't see why not," I smiled. "You're right on the way home ... and I'd like you to be there to cheer me on."

"Oh," she said, her face growing sad. "I was going to be rooting for Kyle ... but I guess I can root for you, too, as long as I'm there." Her face grew into a big grin.

So, maybe I had a bit of reason to work harder than normal at scrimmage. I'm a 14-year old boy, mostly; of course I'm going to try to make a fool of myself for my girlfriend. Even if it's just a girl I was hoping would become my girlfriend.

Girlfriend. It had a nice, warm ring to it. Especially when I thought of Mikayla ... and I thought of her a lot. She seemed perfect to me ... and perfect for me, which isn't quite the same thing. Of course, I knew that it wasn't likely to last forever but I think I could be happy if it did. I know I'd be happy for it to last as long as it could.

Practice this morning was early and painful. I was told that Saturdays after game days wouldn't be this physical; it would mostly be running through how we played in the game the night before and maybe a bit of easy exercises to work out any nicks and scratches we might have. For this one, though, the kid gloves were off.

We started at 7am and went until noon. Evidently, at least one part of Saturday work outs was being implemented now; the coaches had taken notes during the scrimmage on things that had worked and things that hadn't and went over the failures many, many times. I felt lucky that most of the receivers had done well; instead of getting yelled at and doing things until we either fell down or got them right, we ended up going over special teams. As receivers, at least one of us would need to take kick offs and punts and it was different enough that we needed to learn it.

Coach McRory went over our decision-making – when to call for a fair catch, when to take a knee and when to run the ball – and discussed blocking for the runner and all the things we'd done as receivers that we had to do even better on returns. It was not as hard as it sounds, though it was plenty difficult. Since I was unlikely to take any returns – Maven or Posey were the 1 and 2 returners – I spent most of my time learning how to throw blocks and make sure the opposing team was taken out of the play for as long as possible without holding them.

I did the farm books when I returned from football practice. Dad was still looking for some help but he wouldn't hear of me doing anything other than my normal chores in the morning. Even then, he helped me with them. I loved Dad but he was pushing himself too hard; if he didn't find help soon he was going to be in trouble.

After the books, I washed the truck inside and out. The blue and white striped pick-up had seen better days; the front bench seat was worn and cracking in places and the back seat had a rip in one corner. I cleaned them both but it didn't do much good. I washed the dash, getting the dust and dirt off; the dash was faded from the truck being left in the sun but it cleaned up nicely. I even swept out the floorboards and then hand washed the floor.

The truck wasn't much but it was what I had to work with; Mom had a small Ford Fiesta when she wanted to run around but I just felt the truck was the more manly choice. Besides, the Fiesta had bucket seats while the truck had a bench seat; it would be easier for Mikayla to scoot closer in case I got lucky enough to kiss her. There was also the fact that I had to bend unnaturally to get my 5'10" frame into the front seat.

Mom had picked up a dozen red tulips for me; she had wanted to pick up roses but I talked her out of it. Given the whole thing Friday with Jim, I didn't think it would be too appropriate to give her red roses and I didn't want to get some other color; red meant love and devotion and no other color conveyed my feelings for Mikayla quite as well. Of course, I hadn't explained the reasoning behind choosing tulips over roses to my Mom; it was kind of a confidence and I didn't think Mikayla would be too appreciative of my sharing.

"Oh, God," Mikayla said, tears in her eyes, when I presented them to her at the door. She was wearing an off-white blouse that seemed to show off her pale skin and dark black slacks that went fabulously with her hair. She certainly put to shame the dark blue polo shirt and navy slacks I was wearing. "They're beautiful, Chance, but you shouldn't have." Her voice lowered as she stepped out on the porch. "Mom and Dad don't know this is a date. They think we're going to be meeting Sally and Anna and some other people at the movie." Her voice returned louder as she led me into the house. "Let me get them in some water."

I stopped just inside the door, not sure of the proper protocol for a date that wasn't really supposed to be a date. Did I come in and talk to her parents like I normally would? Did I just stand here and wait for her? I was at a loss for what to do.

Finally, I came to a decision, though it wasn't easy. I also had to worry because I was pretty sure Mikayla was not going to like what I was about to do – but I had to do this right. It might backfire in the short term but I was confident it was the right thing to do in the long run.

"Hello Mrs. Danville, Mr. Danville," I smiled as I walked into the living room, trying to act more confident than I felt. Mr. Danville was sitting in a recliner, watching a bowling tournament on the television. He was a rugged man, with balding brown hair and brown eyes the color of dried mud. Mikayla's mom was knitting in a recliner next to him, a small lamp table between the two. Mrs. Danville was as rugged as her husband, maybe even more so. Like him, she was lean but well-muscled, her auburn hair starting to gray but her blue eyes were bright and lively. Darcy, Mikayla's older sister, and Nevaeh, her younger sister were sitting in a couch, looking at me inquisitively. "Hi, Darcy. Hi, Nevaeh."

I took a deep breath and continued. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, Mr. and Mrs. Danville. I think I might have confused your daughter just a bit. We're not going to be meeting anyone at dinner or the movie. I thought ... that is, I kind of hoped ... well ... I was kind of hoping that this would be kind of a date." It had taken a while but I got it out. Darcy and Nevaeh kind of laughed at me, but I knew this was the right thing to do. If I had any chance of a relationship with Mikayla, sneaking behind her parents' backs wasn't the right way to start it.

"We know, hon," Mrs. Danville said as she smiled up from her knitting. "We're glad you were truthful about it, though. Mikayla isn't as good at lying as she thinks she is."

"MOM!" Mikayla said, coming up behind me.

"Mikayla, did you honestly think you were fooling us?" Mrs. Danville laughed. "I mean, the way you've been floating around here, making sure every day that we remembered you were going to the movies 'with friends' this weekend? Sweetie, you've got to learn to lie better than that."

"We do feel better about it now that you've come out and told the truth, though," Mr. Danville added. "I have to say that showing us respect like that tells us more about you than I can say. It also looks like it's going to cost me, though. I'd bet Sue, here, that you wouldn't say anything before you left. It's a bet I'm glad to lose."

"Just have her home by midnight, Chance," Mikayla's dad smiled, getting out of his chair and shaking my hand.

"Midnight?" Mikayla whispered as I got in the car. "My curfew is 10pm. My folks must really like you."

"I think it was more that we were honest with them, Mikayla," I said, starting the truck.

"Maybe," she said, giving it some thought. "What made you decide to tell them, anyway? Especially after what I said on the porch?"

"It just didn't seem like a good idea," I said. "If we're going to have any kind of relationship beyond just friendship, it doesn't seem like a good idea to start it with a lie."

"Relationship?" she mused, talking more to herself than me. I glanced over as I started down the long driveway; she seemed puzzled and there was a look of worried concentration on her face.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head and smiling at me. She took my hand absently and sat back into her seat.

It wasn't 'nothing', though. I could tell. She went back to looking worried and I wondered what was going through her mind but she didn't say. As a matter of fact, the ride into Rouleau was almost silent.

Rouleau is not a big town. I think it came together more by necessity than anything else; a common area for all of the ranchers to meet. That's all there was in any direction – ranch land. Oh, there's the Blackfoot Reservation to the northeast but even that's mostly grassland. No, the more I think about it, the more I believe that some big rancher in the distant past got tired of driving to Cheming for feed or food or conversation and dreamt up Rouleau.

It's big enough to have its own library. It has a 2 screen movie theater but the movies they get are pretty much 2 to 4 months out of date. There's a garage and a gas station to fuel our vehicles, a florist for flowers, an Albertson's and Guenther's Supermarket for food, the Bar K bar and Gramp's for when adults are feeling lively, Bouville's Drugs for the hangover they get after and various feed and machinery stores for when they're feeling responsible. There's also a number of houses for the people who man all that to live in, huddled into a big oval for protection, just in case the natives should decide to rise up again; it hadn't happened in over 100 years but you can never tell with those natives – they're a wily bunch.

Rouleau is also home to Mama's Diner, the only place to dine out this side of Cheming. It's a small place with half-windows on three sides so when you sit in the booths that ring the inside you can gaze out the window at what you're missing – which, admittedly, isn't much. There's a small counter back towards the kitchen and exactly seven tables spread out between the counter and the aforementioned booths. The floor is a hideous orange tile and the plastic seats in the booths are a color that can only be called 'once red' – because they were once red but had now become faded and grimy so they mostly resembled a mangy, black-striped tiger.

What Mama's Diner had, however, that allowed it to stay in business was Mama – Eunice Cole who had to be 90 years old if she was a day and could plain out cook anyone that was even half or a quarter her age.

Everything Mama touched was delicious. She had a way of tasting something with one of her big, old, wooden spoons and sprinkling it with a touch of this and a bit of that so that when it came out of her kitchen it was better than anything you'd ever had before. Chicken fried steak, Rouleau Ham, Carved turkey – it didn't matter what was served, if Mama touched it you would not be able to stop licking your plate; even liver and onions tasted good coming out of Mama's kitchen – and that's saying something.

Mama's daughter was a completely different story. Patricia Cole couldn't cook anything without it smelling like day-old skunk and tasting like week-old fish. How that woman got as fat as she was on her own cooking is beyond me; the only answer that makes any sense is that Mama cooks for her but I know they don't live together.

The trick, then, was to make sure that you picked a day when Mama was cooking and not her daughter. Luckily, it wasn't much of a trick. Just drive by once, circling the small block and you could easily determine who was the cook working at the time; if it was Mama, the place would be pretty much packed with rancher's trucks and the occasional car. If it were her daughter, the parking lot would be a ghost town – except, quite possibly, for an ambulance taking care of a poor fool who hadn't run out the door fast enough to avoid Pat's cooking.

I wasn't lucky ... but I was prepared. I had called up the diner earlier to find out who was cooking tonight. Linda Marell is almost as old as Mama; most people just assume she was built at the same time as the diner itself. Kind of a package deal. If you're nice to her and catch her after a good tip or on a day that ends with 'y', she can be persuaded to gossip. If you listen to her long enough, she'll drop into the conversation who's going to be cooking the rest of the day; the hard part is staying awake long enough so you don't miss it. Linda won't say it more than once and she can drop it into the most seemingly unrelated stories.

We had to wait 15 minutes before a spot opened up for us. I tried to start a conversation with Mikayla but she wasn't ready to talk yet; she held onto her worried concentration like a dog with a bone. Thankfully, silences don't really make me feel awkward; Alex could go days and weeks without talking to anyone. After a while, he'd gotten used to it; it was part of his penance.

May Ellen Krunch, one of the other waitresses at Mama's, seated us in a booth when our time came. I admit that having May Ellen as our waitress was a stroke of luck. Mama only had four waitresses working for her right then: May Ellen Krunch, Linda Marell, Joyce Danners, and Francine Miller; she'd had six but Louise Throckmorton and Angie Carstairs had run off together – most of the town thought they'd just decided to head for greener pastures but Linda would have no problem telling you, in her secret-whispering voice, that they had run off as 'layzbeen luhvors' ... which is how Linda talked. May Ellen was a stroke of luck because Linda would've talked our ears off, Joyce Danners has a problem with her mouth that makes her spit a bit when she talks and Francine Miller smells like a rancid pair of old shoes but as she's a sweet, grandmotherly type no one mentions it to her.

I was starting to get a bit more concerned when the silence continued through our meal. Mikayla ate her pork chops and mac and cheese but she seemed to get a haunted, uncertain look whenever her eyes met mine. Then she'd blush a bit, get that look of worried concentration on her face again, and go back to eating. I tried to draw her out but she mostly just responded with a short phrase and go back to eating and stealing looks at me.