Julie was a student at the junior college, and after the game, she and Stephanie went to a party with other junior college students, where they drank coconut rum and smoked menthol cigarettes, a combination that reminded Stephanie of fluoride treatments at the dentist. Julie deemed the party lame and so they decided to cruise the dual, except they didn’t do it ironically, as Stephanie and Mitchell would have. They just drove around and around, listening to the radio — country, of course — and looking for something to do, as if a new restaurant or movie theater might magically appear along the strip, or, more likely, a place that had initially seemed boring would begin to seem interesting after true boredom set in. As the ride went on, Stephanie began to feel claustrophobic in Julie’s car, a Mazda Miata that smelled strongly of synthetic banana, emanating from a yellow pine tree that swung merrily from the rearview mirror. Everything that was dull about Julie could be summed up by this particular aesthetic decision, Stephanie thought. And it was in thinking of Mitchell, and what bitchy thing Mitchell might say about this tropical pine tree car freshener, that Stephanie heard herself say aloud that she missed high school.
Which was how they had ended up at a high school football party.
“Steph, you have to catch up!” Julie said, pointing to her beer bottle, still three-quarters full.
The low-ceilinged room was crowded and hot. Green Day, the one rock band that seemed to cross all clique lines, played loudly from small speakers perched on top of a mostly empty bookshelf. Some of the football players started dancing — not actual dancing, more like jumping around — celebrating their win.
Stephanie reluctantly took a sip of her drink. She didn’t get beer. She remembered an article she’d read about alcohol use before Prohibition, how people used to drink beer all day, even for breakfast. It was milder then, apparently. She told Julie, just to say something, but Julie barely listened.
“You read a lot of articles.” Julie looked around the room restlessly. “I thought I would know more people here.”
“Me too,” Stephanie said, even though her friends had all graduated. “I’m going to get a soda,” she said. “You want my beer?”
“Yeah, okay,” Julie said. She held out her empty bottle. “Throw this away?”
The party was in the basement rec room of the big suburban house of Brett Albright, her old crush. He’d given her a wave when she came in, but she clearly didn’t mean anything in particular to him. He had a girlfriend, anyway, a sophomore girl who wore his chunky class ring on a gold chain that hung between her breasts. Brett’s parents were home and his father, a jowlier version of Brett, occasionally came downstairs to replenish the refreshments. He seemed to know about the beer stash but not about the liquor that was being surreptitiously added to sodas. His presence made Stephanie feel especially pathetic. She poured herself a Coke from a freshly stocked two-liter bottle and ate an Oreo.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder and said her full name. She turned to find Laird Kemp looming over her. He was one of those football players who actually intimidated her, with his five o’clock shadow and oversized feet and hands. At the same time, he had a calm face, with sleepy eyes set beneath hopelessly undergroomed eyebrows.
“I thought you graduated,” he said.
“I thought you moved.”
“I did. I’m visiting.”
“Me too.”
“Why?” Laird asked. “Does your dad need help or something?”
“Why would my dad need help?”
“I don’t know. Sorry. I’m just confused. . with your dad quitting and all.” He held out a flask, helplessly. “Want some?”
She accepted his generous pour without even asking what it was. Rum, she decided. She had never really considered Laird before. He didn’t seem quite at home in his big square body. He wasn’t graceful like Brett. But she liked being near him, she liked his broad forearms with their thick black hair, she liked his shoulders, and she liked his sleepy yet curious gaze. Around his neck was a silver chain with something on it — but it was hidden beneath his T-shirt.
“You a Pearl Jam fan?” he asked, catching her gaze on his T-shirt.
“Yeah, kind of. I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m a huge fan. I don’t have their albums or anything. But I like their music. When it comes on the radio, I don’t change the station.” Stephanie took a sip of her drink to stop her nervous chatter. You’re in college, she told herself sternly. A very good college.
“No one at my new school likes Pearl Jam,” Laird said. “I mean, no one on the football team.”
“Is that why you’re back here — to find a Pearl Jam fan?” Stephanie said, lamely. She felt like she’d made an old-person joke.
“I’m back here because I miss it,” he said. “I’m fucking homesick. I hate my new school. I love these guys.”
“Why are you talking to me, then?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I thought it would be more fun to hang out with them. But I wasn’t in the game. It’s not the same. And everybody keeps asking me why I’m back and what my new team is like and it’s like I don’t have any good answer.”
“I’m getting the same thing.”
“Why are you back?” Laird asked. “I thought college was great.”
“It is,” Stephanie said. “I just don’t know anyone there.”
Laird nodded. “My new school sucks. Everyone is snobby. They say I have a hick accent. The coach isn’t half as good as your dad.”
“Maybe you just don’t know him that well.”
“No,” Laird said. “You can tell. He’s a yeller. Your dad isn’t like that. I can’t believe he’s not coaching anymore. I didn’t find out until tonight. I was like — what? All the guys are so bummed.”
Stephanie shrugged. “You guys won tonight without him.”
“That’s Beech Creek,” Laird said, dismissively. He fixed his gaze on her, suddenly seeming less sleepy. “Do you even know how good a coach your dad is? He has a football mind.”
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“You don’t get it, your dad can work with any team, it doesn’t matter how good they are. He’ll come up with plays to match the players. If he’d been coaching Beech Creek tonight, they would have beaten us. That’s a fact.”
“A verifiable fact.”
“Basically, yeah.” Laird grinned at his hyperbole. Behind him, his teammates were bellowing the lyrics to a Garth Brooks song. “I don’t miss that,” he said.
“What’s on your necklace?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s my number.” He pulled on the silver chain to reveal a silver 12.
Stephanie reached out to touch the charm. It was warm from his body. “So it’s a football thing. Everything’s a football thing for you guys.”
“Not everything,” Laird said. He took a step closer to her.
Stephanie kept hold of the number for another moment before letting it go. “Did you drive here?”
“Yeah, why?” He grinned.
“Because maybe we could drive somewhere else.”
AFTER THE GAME, Joelle volunteered to let the boys sleep over so that Dean and Ed could go out. Ed took Dean to Coach’s, a new sports bar that was owned by one of his friends. “Thought you’d get a kick out of it,” Ed said when Dean commented on the blinking neon sign, shaped like a football. Inside, it was busy, with the Orioles game playing on all the TVs. The staff wore baseball caps and team jerseys, and the walls were lined with salvaged trophies and old sports posters. The overall effect was cluttered and casual, as if you were in someone’s disorganized basement — wholesome and easygoing. Not the effect, maybe, that Ed’s buddy was going for, but more appealing than the seedy places along the dual highway.