I PUT ON AN EXTRA COAT OF MASCARA BUT STOP MYSELF BEFORE I blow-dry my hair. I don’t need to impress Campbell, and I shouldn’t want to. I also shouldn’t want to eat bacon every day, but that doesn’t stop me from salivating every time I smell it.
My hands freeze in the middle of twisting my elastic around my ponytail. Did I mentally reduce Campbell to the level of bacon? Ew. He’s so much more than breakfast meat. He’s more than an amazing-looking guy. He’s sweet and smart and a little bit shy.
Listing his qualities isn’t helping either. I need to get out of my head and out of this house. When I open up the bathroom door, I can hear the SportsCenter jingle playing from the TV in the living room. There’s a greasy box on the counter from my favorite doughnut shop, but I don’t see Dad anywhere.
Campbell, however, is standing on his good foot, with his other foot propped up on one of the barstools. A gauze patch, some pre-wrap, and some athletic tape are spread on the counter.
I watch as he peels back the old bandage, body twisted awkwardly so that he can see what he’s doing. He’s got his tongue pinched between his teeth in concentration, and I can’t decide if this is the cutest or stupidest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.
“What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?” I ask, voice light, trying not to say anything that will remind him of that moment in the hallway.
“Change my bandage.”
“You couldn’t wait to ask for help?”
“You were taking forever in the bathroom, and—” He tries to reposition his injured foot but bumps the tape, and it rolls all the way across the room. Campbell sighs, defeated. “What I meant to say was, ‘Will you please help me?’”
“Good recovery.” I walk into the living room and pull out the ottoman. “Sit. Dangle your foot off the edge.”
He does as I ask, stretching his leg out toward me, and we tuck some pillows under his knee. Kneeling next to the ottoman, I check the bottom of his foot. It’s even more purple today than it was yesterday, which is to be expected but is still ugly. His stitches are as beautiful as anyone’s could be in the situation, but the wound is draining and totally disgusting.
“Sorry it’s gross,” he says, reading my stink-face.
“Sorry you have to take care of it.”
Then I look up at him and smile. “It’s part of our deal.” I try to be as gentle as possible as I tape down the gauze patch, but I worry that every movement hurts.
“Speaking of the deal,” he says and then lowers his voice, looking toward the office. Then he mouths, Can your dad hear us?
“Why?”
He leans over, grabs the remote, and turns the volume up a few clicks. “Come here.”
Now I’m worried. Little worms of anxiety are squiggling around in my stomach, but I sit on the seat cushion next to him, one leg tucked under my butt.
“I had an idea this morning.” The way he’s talking makes me lean closer so I can hear every word. “Remember how I told you about the charity that Sterling and I work for? I think it’s totally possible to launch something like that at your park. I did some research this morning and …” He pauses to pull out his phone and show me what’s on the screen. There’s a little boy in a wheelchair wearing a baseball helmet lined up next to a batting tee. “Teams all over the country use their facilities in the off-season to help kids with disabilities participate in sports. What if you gave one a home? How could your dad disagree with something that helps kids in need?”
My head is a little buzzy, like I haven’t had enough to eat, but I know it’s more than that. There’s something here. I can feel it. “Sometimes people don’t see the marketing potential in working with the Beavers. But maybe they’d be more willing to sponsor something that affects people in their town and their customers?”
“Exactly. I know I’m not a big enough deal to draw a huge following, but I’ve got some contacts and—” Campbell stops, meeting my eyes, and the excitement in his fades. “Do you think this is a stupid idea?”
“No,” I rush to whisper back. There’s something about a whisper that makes a regular conversation far more intense and personal. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe it’s the way you’re watching the other person’s mouth so you’re positive you capture every word. “This is wonderful. Exactly what I was hoping for.”
“Oh. Good, then.”
“It’s just … are you really sure you want to do this? This project will take a long time.” Longer than a week. Longer than a season. It’s a commitment.
“Of course. This is something I’ve always wanted to do. Give back to the community.” He sets his phone down between us, wrist resting against the hand that I’m using to hold myself up. “And if this is something you really want to do, I think Buckley is the perfect place to do it.”
I tell my dad that we’re leaving early to go to Mia’s, but really we climb in the van and drive to the grocery store. In the parking lot, Campbell makes a couple of calls to the organization he worked with back in Georgia. It’s not surprising that no one answers since it’s Sunday, but Campbell leaves voice mails.
While he’s on the phone, I send emails to the five different organizations that all specialize in recreational therapy, asking for more information.
“I guess we wait until tomorrow and hope someone answers?” he asks as he fiddles with the van’s door handle.
A hopeful bubble fills my chest, making me feel buoyant. “Yep, but first ice cream.”
Even though Ms. Vivi never lets me bring anything to Sunday dinners, I always try to find something I can offer as a thank-you. Campbell and I pull into Mia’s driveway with two sweaty containers of Blue Bell Ice Cream. It was on sale and they had Dutch Chocolate (Mia’s favorite) and Strawberry Homemade Vanilla. Campbell doesn’t “mind” chocolate. Whatever that means. I’m not picky. I’ll eat both.
I let myself in through the side door and find Ms. Vivi sautéing something that smells so good my stomach does a happy dance. She greets me with a hug and two kisses, one on each cheek, and gives Campbell the same welcome. If he had any hesitation about coming with me, it’s melted away by her kindness.
She fusses over him, volunteering ice packs and Tylenol and cold beverages. When he turns down all her offers and she refuses our attempts to help, we’re shooed out of the kitchen.
“Everyone is watching the game in the movie room,” she says, turning back to her frying pan. “Go. Relax.”
The Rodrigueses’ house is gorgeous. They have a formal living room on the main floor and a game room with an attached movie theater on the upper floor. Two rows of reclining leather couches are positioned on risers in front of a wall-width screen. Ms. Vivi painted the room dark gray and hung framed black-and-white posters from classic movies down both walls. A real popcorn machine sits in one corner. This is another reason I don’t go to the movie theater in town: Mia’s house is so much better.
Actually, a lot of things are better at Mia’s. Even before my mom left, I felt a little jealous of what the Rodrigueses have. Not the house—the traditions. They have parties scheduled with their extended family at specific times throughout the year. They have food they make for certain occasions and games they always play.
We see my dad’s parents once or twice a year. They live in Alabama, where my dad is originally from, near his younger brother’s family. My uncle has three kids, all younger than me, who Nana and Papa take care of several days per week. My mom and Nana never got along. I know it was Nana’s fault—she accused my mom of getting pregnant with me on purpose to “steal Matthew’s money”—but she apologized years ago. Still, there are things that can never be taken back.
Our rare trips to Tuscaloosa were always stilted and uncomfortable. Mom spent her time out shopping with my aunt or reuniting with college friends so she and Nana wouldn’t occupy the same space for too many hours per day. They did a good job of acting cordial in front of everyone, but it’s not the same as being smothered by Abuela Rodrigues’s hugs and invited to work with Mia’s mom and aunts in the kitchen—laughing, dancing, gossiping.
I know things will change when Mia goes off to UT and I go to A M, and I’m a little sad when I think about it. I’ll miss my best friend and her family more than I’ve ever missed my own.
Mia is curled up in the back row of recliners with a fleece blanket tucked to her chin. Her dad is asleep on his stomach across the front row, snoring slightly, completely oblivious to the frigid temperatures in the room.
“Hey, guys!” She flings open her arms to hug me, and I realize she’s wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt from a fifth-grade stint at vacation Bible school and shorts that used to be sweats. She didn’t dress up for guests or for the hot guy who was coming to her house for dinner, and I love her for it.
I plop down next to her, and Campbell takes the seat on the far side of me, immediately fidgeting with the buttons on the chair.
“How was the game last night?” Mia shares the edge of the blanket with me. “Don’t you love the stadium? Did you have the loaded baked potato? It’s my favorite.”
I let Campbell answer, since Mia’s already heard my version. He doesn’t mention the crowd of people who hounded him for autographs, or Amerie, or the Kiss Cam. But he does bring up everything we learned about the new stadium.
Mia pokes me in the leg from underneath the blanket, as if Campbell has said something substantial. I’m not exactly sure how to decipher the leg poke, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it later.
“Can you get me tickets?” a drowsy voice from the first row asks. It doesn’t belong to Mr. Rodrigues.
“Marco Polo?” I stand up and peer over the recliner’s back.
Mia’s older brother smirks up at me, one eye squinted against the screen’s glare. “What’s up, Nolan Ryan?”
“No one told me you were going to be—” I don’t finish my sentence because he reaches over the couch, locks his arm around my neck, and scrubs his fist against my head.
I screech–laugh, trying to get my fingers into the curve of his elbow. When I can’t break his hold, I settle for pinching him hard on the underside of his arm until he yelps and lets go.
This is a typical Marc welcome and has been since we were on the track team together. He decided that if he had to see me at school, practice, and at home, he was going to treat me exactly like he treated Mia.
Which explains why her hair is a little more voluminous than usual.
“’Sup,” Marc says, raising his chin at Campbell. They exchange names and fist bumps.
“How come you’re home from school?” I yank out my elastic and put my hair back into some version of a ponytail.
“I’m not taking any classes during summer semester.”
Mia kicks the back of Marc’s seat. “And because he missed us.” Marc responds to that with a noncommittal grunt.
“Are you that mean to your sisters?” I ask Campbell while pushing against the reclined couch-back with my feet. When it snaps perfectly vertical, Marc mumbles something like “Knock it off.”
Campbell takes my ponytail and swings it so that it whacks me across the face. “All the time.”
DINNER IS AMAZING. THE RODRIGUES FAMILY MAKES CAMPBELL feel like we’ve all been friends for centuries instead of five minutes. Ms. Vivi serves the ice cream and then kicks us out of the main house so she can clean up without interruption. We take our bowls to the pool house and hang out there.
A couch and a love seat form an L around a Ping-Pong table and are a barrier in front of the mini-kitchen. A soccer game is on the flat-screen mounted to the wall, but none of us is interested in either team, so Mia and Marc start a Ping-Pong tournament. Their matches are always intense, full of cheering, taunts, threats, and the occasional victory dance.
Campbell and I sit on opposite ends of the couch, watching Mia perform some sort of celebratory shimmy after beating her brother in the first set. We’re all laughing, and for a little while I’m able to distance myself from my worries of Mom selling the team.
“Check this out,” Campbell says, tilting his phone toward me.
I have to slide down the couch to see what’s on the screen. Our shoulders are touching, but I convince myself this is friendly. Not a big deal.
“What am I looking at?” I lean in a little closer, squinting at the blurry image. There’s a weird glare at the bottom of the picture, like it’s a picture of a picture.
And I realize that’s exactly what it is. Two babies—one chubby, with a ton of hair, and the other completely bald—lay side by side on a frog-patterned blanket. The fat baby is giving a big droolly smile at the camera.
“That’s me,” he says, pointing to the big baby. “And that’s you.”
In the picture, I’m turned toward him, staring like he’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. Things haven’t changed that much.
My parents don’t have a ton of pictures of me before they got good cell phones with half-decent cameras, so it’s weird to see myself so small. But the thing that snags my attention and holds on is the woman sitting on the ground in the background.
“Holy crap.” I take the phone out of his hand. “That’s my mom.”
She’s super thin—much skinnier than I am—and so young. I knew she was technically a teen mom, but this is the first time I’ve seen her as a teen and as my mom. She’s not the focus of the picture; her face is turned partway from the camera, and her hair hangs long and silky, almost to her waist. She’s laughing.
Mom quit school when she had me. Gave up her cross-country scholarship. Moved from town to town while Dad bounced around in the minors. I know it wasn’t easy. She never finished her education, too busy moving us from city to city, and had very few friends until we moved to Buckley. Then working for the team sort of took over her life.
“When was this taken?” I ask, trying to remember a time when my mom ever looked so … cute.
Campbell takes the phone from me and texts his mom. “During your dad’s last semester at Alabama. You and your mom came to visit.”
“Huh.” I don’t know what else to say.
He bumps me with his shoulder. “Mom says we were always meant to be friends.”
Mia gives a snort–laugh, and I realize she’s been listening to everything we’ve said, but it costs her the game. Marc beats her with a wickedly angled shot.
“I play the winner,” Campbell yells.
“Dude. You can barely move.” Marc spins his paddle in tight circles before serving the ball to Mia. “Plus, you couldn’t beat me with two good legs.”
Campbell swallows down the taunt, but I can see by the way he holds his shoulders that it didn’t go down easily. “You want to test that theory?”
Marc coughs, then slams the ball with a little more force than necessary. “Bring it.”
Campbell stands without his crutches and limps, heel off the floor, toward the table. I draw a breath between my teeth and look at Mia for a suggestion. She shrugs at me and falls, sweaty-faced, into the spot Campbell relinquished.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” I toe one of Campbell’s crutches toward him.
He ignores it but smiles at me like he’s a knight headed into a tourney. “I think this is a great idea.”
I’m not sure what he thinks he’s fighting for. Is honor still a thing?
“Boys are stupid,” Mia says loudly. But she mumbles under her breath, too soft for them to hear: “Not exactly Hadley Pearson, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Are you rethinking your rules yet?”
“Never.”
She knows I’m lying, and she laughs so hard that the boys look over to see what’s so funny. Campbell eyes me like he’s missed something, and that expression is enough to send heat flashing all over my body. And I realize Mia’s not the only person I’m lying to.
