A Shot at Normal by Marisa Reichardt

Author:Marisa Reichardt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

TWENTY-FIVE

The football stadium smells like wet grass and popcorn. I hold tight to Nico’s hand as we push through the excited crowd, trying to find a seat. The bright fluorescent floodlights buzz above us, and my eardrums vibrate with the echo of cheers and the chatter of students in the stands. It’s so packed, so busy, that part of me wants to curl up and retreat. But Nico’s hand is soft and warm, pushing me forward.

“My friends and I usually sit somewhere around here,” he says, pointing out two empty seats at the end of a cement bench in the middle of the student section.

I’d expected we’d sit off to the side somewhere. Inconspicuous and away from people who might watch online videos from the local pumpkin patch on an endless loop. Because they still haunt me. The yells. The taunts. The spittle. The threats.

Murderers.

“What if someone recognizes me?” I say.

“Nah. Most of the people I know aren’t paying attention to stuff like that.”

He’s so sure, so confident, that I can’t help but trust him. I square my shoulders. Commit. “Lead the way.”

We walk up alternating steps of red and yellow, painted in school colors, to take our seats. Various people say hi to Nico along the way. The constant greetings make me feel like all eyes are on us, but when I really look at everyone, we’re merely a blip and they’ve gone back to focusing on the band marching through the middle of the field, pounding drums and blaring horns, while color guard girls wearing red and yellow sweaters and silver skirts that catch the light twirl flags and batons. I sit down, pull the red knit hat Poppy made me last Christmas lower over my ears, and tuck my hair into the back of my sweatshirt.

A guy in front of us turns around. Says, “What up?” to Nico.

Nico greets him with a lift of his chin and a “hey.”

A girl from a few rows behind us calls out Nico’s name. He turns around and waves.

“Come sit up here,” she shouts.

“We’re good,” he calls back, then turns to me and rubs his hands together in anticipation of the big game.

“Are you the mayor or something? You know everybody.”

“Nah. Just been in this small town since kindergarten.” He bumps my shoulder and places his hand on my knee. When his fingertips sink into the skin between the rips in my jeans, it makes my heart skitter. “All good?” he asks.

I nod and watch the field. If I look him in the eye, I’ll give away everything. Like how much I like him.

I focus on the sights and sounds instead. I break into a smile, my cheeks somehow warming despite the cold air.

I can’t believe I’m really here.

I’m finally in this.

I know enough about football from what Bumpa taught me watching games on TV at his house on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I’ve never been to a game in person, where I can actually feel the vibrations of the ground under my feet.

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