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Authors: Flynn Meaney
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of the decorations?”
She looks really excited to hear what I think, so I say, “Uhhh… I like the balloons.”
“Yay!” Bobbi claps her hand against her protein-drink thingy. “Then it was totally worth it! We were up so late, I just hope I have enough energy for my match this afternoon.”
Eugene jumps in as soon as she says that.
“Your match is at four, right?” he says. “I can make it, I’ve just gotta sprint back to our team dinner as soon as it’s over.”
“And
I’m
going to, like, sprint home and shower in between my game and your game,” Bobbi says, laughing. “You’re coming tonight, right, Hunter? We can be, like, a cheering section for Eugene!”
Before I answer, I look back and forth from Bobbi to the smug bastard in the Italian silk tie.
“You gonna root for me, Huntro?” Eugene asks suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.
I grin. “Oh, I’ll be cheering you on,” I tell him. “I really hope you score.”
“Raise your right hand if you’re a little gingerbread boy who got injured on the bench,” I say to Eugene.
It’s Friday night, and I’m standing on the football field sidelines, holding Eugene’s helmet by the face mask with one hand and a bag of Cracker Jack in the other. In front of me, Eugene is lying on a white stretcher in his full football uniform—cleats, white pants, and white home jersey with green number 53 on it. His uniform is so clean he could be in a Tide commercial, but he’s groaning in pain and his right arm is crossed over his chest.
“You know I can’t raise my damn hand,” Eugene says, glaring. “Look at me!”
Since he doesn’t seem to be really hurt, I feel free to mock him.
“That’s
righhhhht
,” I say, grinning really wide. “You
can’t
raise your hand. Which, ironically,
makes
you the little gingerbread boy.”
“I’m the little gingerbread boy!” Eugene says. “Fine, I admit it. I’m the damn gingerbread boy!”
He’s red in the face. I hope I’m aggravating that ulcer of his. Man, I’m sorry I missed all this crap last year. I
love
homecoming.
Up until Eugene’s injury, the actual football game was a nonevent. I guess the Julius athletic directors were looking for a team who wouldn’t beat us at our homecoming, so we’re playing a team called the Farmers: two lame mascots and two lame teams.
“This is like the Olympics of incompetence,” Dave said during the second quarter, after their receiver dropped a pass.
“I think it’s so great,” I said, stuffing my face with Dave’s Cracker Jack. “It’s like watching the bloopers show on ESPN.”
Damian was leaning forward and analyzing all the action.
In the stands, there were girls drinking brownish-orange liquid out of Tropicana bottles. The contents were probably 4 percent Tropicana and 96 percent Captain Morgan, booze provided by Eugene. Close to halftime, we actually scored a touchdown, and everyone went berserk.Derek started snatching Cracker Jack out of Dave’s giant bag and throwing it all over the people around us, yelling, “
Ticker-tape parade! Ticker-tape parade!
”
“Stop,” Dave grumbled, swatting at Derek’s hand. “Stop throwing a parade. I bet there’s a flag on the play.”
But there wasn’t a flag on the play. Down on the field, Josh, who scored the touchdown, was running toward the bench… right at Eugene, who was waiting to give him a high five.
Except Josh wasn’t going for a high five. Josh was going for the chest bump. And that’s when Eugene went down.
The kid went down so
hard
, I’m telling you. According to Chung, who was right there next to them, there was this
crunch
sound, like what you hear when you sit on a bag of pretzels. That was Eugene’s collarbone.
So here we are. The paramedics are taking Eugene’s insurance information when Josh comes jogging over.
“Oh my God, dude,” Josh says, coming around the side of the stretcher with his helmet jammed under his arm. “I am
so
sorry.”
“Don’t worry
She looks really excited to hear what I think, so I say, “Uhhh… I like the balloons.”
“Yay!” Bobbi claps her hand against her protein-drink thingy. “Then it was totally worth it! We were up so late, I just hope I have enough energy for my match this afternoon.”
Eugene jumps in as soon as she says that.
“Your match is at four, right?” he says. “I can make it, I’ve just gotta sprint back to our team dinner as soon as it’s over.”
“And
I’m
going to, like, sprint home and shower in between my game and your game,” Bobbi says, laughing. “You’re coming tonight, right, Hunter? We can be, like, a cheering section for Eugene!”
Before I answer, I look back and forth from Bobbi to the smug bastard in the Italian silk tie.
“You gonna root for me, Huntro?” Eugene asks suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.
I grin. “Oh, I’ll be cheering you on,” I tell him. “I really hope you score.”
“Raise your right hand if you’re a little gingerbread boy who got injured on the bench,” I say to Eugene.
It’s Friday night, and I’m standing on the football field sidelines, holding Eugene’s helmet by the face mask with one hand and a bag of Cracker Jack in the other. In front of me, Eugene is lying on a white stretcher in his full football uniform—cleats, white pants, and white home jersey with green number 53 on it. His uniform is so clean he could be in a Tide commercial, but he’s groaning in pain and his right arm is crossed over his chest.
“You know I can’t raise my damn hand,” Eugene says, glaring. “Look at me!”
Since he doesn’t seem to be really hurt, I feel free to mock him.
“That’s
righhhhht
,” I say, grinning really wide. “You
can’t
raise your hand. Which, ironically,
makes
you the little gingerbread boy.”
“I’m the little gingerbread boy!” Eugene says. “Fine, I admit it. I’m the damn gingerbread boy!”
He’s red in the face. I hope I’m aggravating that ulcer of his. Man, I’m sorry I missed all this crap last year. I
love
homecoming.
Up until Eugene’s injury, the actual football game was a nonevent. I guess the Julius athletic directors were looking for a team who wouldn’t beat us at our homecoming, so we’re playing a team called the Farmers: two lame mascots and two lame teams.
“This is like the Olympics of incompetence,” Dave said during the second quarter, after their receiver dropped a pass.
“I think it’s so great,” I said, stuffing my face with Dave’s Cracker Jack. “It’s like watching the bloopers show on ESPN.”
Damian was leaning forward and analyzing all the action.
In the stands, there were girls drinking brownish-orange liquid out of Tropicana bottles. The contents were probably 4 percent Tropicana and 96 percent Captain Morgan, booze provided by Eugene. Close to halftime, we actually scored a touchdown, and everyone went berserk.Derek started snatching Cracker Jack out of Dave’s giant bag and throwing it all over the people around us, yelling, “
Ticker-tape parade! Ticker-tape parade!
”
“Stop,” Dave grumbled, swatting at Derek’s hand. “Stop throwing a parade. I bet there’s a flag on the play.”
But there wasn’t a flag on the play. Down on the field, Josh, who scored the touchdown, was running toward the bench… right at Eugene, who was waiting to give him a high five.
Except Josh wasn’t going for a high five. Josh was going for the chest bump. And that’s when Eugene went down.
The kid went down so
hard
, I’m telling you. According to Chung, who was right there next to them, there was this
crunch
sound, like what you hear when you sit on a bag of pretzels. That was Eugene’s collarbone.
So here we are. The paramedics are taking Eugene’s insurance information when Josh comes jogging over.
“Oh my God, dude,” Josh says, coming around the side of the stretcher with his helmet jammed under his arm. “I am
so
sorry.”
“Don’t worry
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