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Authors: Simone Elkeles
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got a boyfriend and teammates for that. I need to remind myself to stay out of her life even when instinct tells me otherwise.
Falkor jumps on my lap and paws me. His breath smells like he’s been eating something other than dog food.
Spending the summer at Regents would’ve been awesome, with parties that would last all night. Now I’m in the suburbs of Chicago living with a stepmother who suddenly wants to make sure I stay out of trouble and a girl with a pink lacy bra who plays football and would like nothing better than for me to fall off the face of the earth.
Because I have nothing better to do and need an adventure, Idecide to drive to Fairfield to see if I can spot the Jeep. It’s easy to infiltrate enemy territory when nobody recognizes you as the enemy. I wear jeans, boots, and a plaid button-down with my beanie to emphasize that I’m not from around here. When I first met Jack at Regents, he asked me if I lived on a ranch because of the way I talked. I might have talked like a cowboy, but I looked like a California dude who surfs and wears beanies. I’ve lived so many places, I don’t fit into any mold.
Fairfield is the town next to Fremont. I set my GPS for Fairfield High and find their football field empty. It’s Saturday, but hard-core players practice on weekends. As I cruise the streets on the alert for a Jeep, it doesn’t take long to realize there’s a rich side of town and a not-so-rich side. I turn down one block, then another, where buildings are tagged with gang symbols. The guys hanging out on the street corners look more than ready to sell me drugs.
I’m about to give up when I spot a red Jeep with a custom light bar parked in front of a sandwich shop called Rick’s Subs. A dude who looks like Ashtyn’s boyfriend, accompanied by some chick, pulls out of a spot and drives off. I take it. Once inside, I sit at the end of the long counter and pretend to look at the chalkboard menu above. This is obviously the Fairfield High hangout of choice.
A bunch of guys who look about my age are in a booth, laughing and acting like they’re the shit.
“Bonk, upload another close-up,” one of the guys says a bit too loudly. Bonk has a shaved head and piercings in his ears and eyebrows. He tells the guys to keep it down and looks around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping.
“What’ll ya have?” the waitress asks.
I glance at the menu again. “I’ll have a meatball sub to go.”
“You got it.” She calls out my order to the chef, then pours me a glass of water. “You go to Fairfield? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Nah, I’m visiting from California.” I nod toward Bonk and his posse, who now have a crowd around them. “So, um . . . do those guys go to Fairfield?”
“Sure do. Football players. The one with the shaved head is Matthew Bonk,” she adds. “He’s our star receiver,” she says proudly as if he’s someone famous. “We won State again this past year. Matthew’s our local celebrity.”
She goes to take someone else’s order.
Bonk walks up to the counter. He notices me sizing him up. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asks as if he’s some deity unworthy of my gaze. He’s obviously taking the local celebrity thing seriously.
Time to have some fun . . .
“I just . . . wow! Matthew Bonk in the flesh.” I take his hand and shake it with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure finally meetin’ the famous receiver from Fairfield High.”
“Thanks, man.” He pulls his hand away. “Who’d you say you were?”
“Payton Walters,” I tell him, reversing the name of one of the greatest running backs of all time. The dude is clueless. “I was wonderin’ if I could get your autograph for my girlfriend. She’s a huge fan o’ yours, man. You’d earn me some serious brownie points if she knew I met you.” I grab my napkin and hold it out asthe doting waitress eagerly appears and provides a pen. “Make it out to Sugar Pie.” I peer
Falkor jumps on my lap and paws me. His breath smells like he’s been eating something other than dog food.
Spending the summer at Regents would’ve been awesome, with parties that would last all night. Now I’m in the suburbs of Chicago living with a stepmother who suddenly wants to make sure I stay out of trouble and a girl with a pink lacy bra who plays football and would like nothing better than for me to fall off the face of the earth.
Because I have nothing better to do and need an adventure, Idecide to drive to Fairfield to see if I can spot the Jeep. It’s easy to infiltrate enemy territory when nobody recognizes you as the enemy. I wear jeans, boots, and a plaid button-down with my beanie to emphasize that I’m not from around here. When I first met Jack at Regents, he asked me if I lived on a ranch because of the way I talked. I might have talked like a cowboy, but I looked like a California dude who surfs and wears beanies. I’ve lived so many places, I don’t fit into any mold.
Fairfield is the town next to Fremont. I set my GPS for Fairfield High and find their football field empty. It’s Saturday, but hard-core players practice on weekends. As I cruise the streets on the alert for a Jeep, it doesn’t take long to realize there’s a rich side of town and a not-so-rich side. I turn down one block, then another, where buildings are tagged with gang symbols. The guys hanging out on the street corners look more than ready to sell me drugs.
I’m about to give up when I spot a red Jeep with a custom light bar parked in front of a sandwich shop called Rick’s Subs. A dude who looks like Ashtyn’s boyfriend, accompanied by some chick, pulls out of a spot and drives off. I take it. Once inside, I sit at the end of the long counter and pretend to look at the chalkboard menu above. This is obviously the Fairfield High hangout of choice.
A bunch of guys who look about my age are in a booth, laughing and acting like they’re the shit.
“Bonk, upload another close-up,” one of the guys says a bit too loudly. Bonk has a shaved head and piercings in his ears and eyebrows. He tells the guys to keep it down and looks around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping.
“What’ll ya have?” the waitress asks.
I glance at the menu again. “I’ll have a meatball sub to go.”
“You got it.” She calls out my order to the chef, then pours me a glass of water. “You go to Fairfield? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Nah, I’m visiting from California.” I nod toward Bonk and his posse, who now have a crowd around them. “So, um . . . do those guys go to Fairfield?”
“Sure do. Football players. The one with the shaved head is Matthew Bonk,” she adds. “He’s our star receiver,” she says proudly as if he’s someone famous. “We won State again this past year. Matthew’s our local celebrity.”
She goes to take someone else’s order.
Bonk walks up to the counter. He notices me sizing him up. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asks as if he’s some deity unworthy of my gaze. He’s obviously taking the local celebrity thing seriously.
Time to have some fun . . .
“I just . . . wow! Matthew Bonk in the flesh.” I take his hand and shake it with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure finally meetin’ the famous receiver from Fairfield High.”
“Thanks, man.” He pulls his hand away. “Who’d you say you were?”
“Payton Walters,” I tell him, reversing the name of one of the greatest running backs of all time. The dude is clueless. “I was wonderin’ if I could get your autograph for my girlfriend. She’s a huge fan o’ yours, man. You’d earn me some serious brownie points if she knew I met you.” I grab my napkin and hold it out asthe doting waitress eagerly appears and provides a pen. “Make it out to Sugar Pie.” I peer
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