Tom Perrotta - Nine Inches

That’s the thing I forgot about.

It’s pretty funny, actually. They don’t just get jerseys from the varsity guys, they borrow shoulder pads and helmets, too. Everything’s way too big — the shirts hanging past their knees, the pads askew, the helmets loose, with lots of pretty hair spilling out. Most of the girls are grinning behind their facemasks, like they know exactly how cute they are, but a few try to scowl and swagger like tough guys, holding their arms out like they’re carrying buckets of sand, and grunting at everyone they pass.

Somehow I manage not to see Megan until fifth-period lunch. She’s standing on line in the cafeteria with her best friend, Brianna, both of them nodding frantically, like they’re having a contest to see which of them can agree the hardest. Brianna’s not a cheerleader, so she’s just wearing regular clothes. Megan’s wearing shoulder pads and a Cougars jersey, number 55, which belongs to Bobby Makowski. She must’ve gotten tired of the helmet because she’s taken it off and placed it on top of the tray she’s pushing down the line toward the steam table.

“Clay,” she says, when she sees me standing there. She’s got black war paint under her eyes and it gives her a fierce look, but I can see how nervous she is. “How are you?”

I can’t take my eyes off her chest, those two big 5s, bright white against the blue mesh fabric. Last year she wore my jersey, number 51.

“Wow,” I say. “So you’re with Bobby now?”

I guess I’m hoping she’ll deny it, assure me that it’s just a coincidence, that she just grabbed the shirt out of a random pile. But we both know it doesn’t work that way.

“I’m sorry,” she says, after exchanging an Oh, shit look with Brianna. “I wanted to tell you.”

“There’s a lotta guys on the team. It didn’t have to be Bobby.”

“It just happened,” she explains. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“Are you gonna fuck him?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, but I can’t help myself.

She squints at me in disbelief. “Don’t be an asshole, Clay. It’s not like you.”

By now, the whole line’s stopped and everybody’s watching us like we’re a TV show. There’s space in front of Megan, but she doesn’t move, not even when Brianna touches her on the shoulder, trying to nudge her forward.

I don’t know what else to do, so I grab Bobby’s helmet off the tray. There are paint smears all over the surface, little smudges of green and red and black, the residue of a season’s worth of combat. My old helmet looked a lot like this at the end of last year.

I spread the earholes and tug it over my head. It’s a little tight around my temples, but otherwise a decent fit. I buckle the chinstrap, staring at her through the grid of Bobby’s facemask. It feels good to wear a helmet after all this time, like I’m suddenly myself again. Megan’s shaking her head, very slowly, and I can see that she’s close to tears.

“Please don’t do this,” she whispers.

AFTER THE clocks change, the cold gets under your clothes. Dead leaves are everywhere, like scraps torn from a huge pile of brown paper bags.

I go to school in the dark and come right home in the afternoon. Sometimes it seems like Mrs. Scotto and I are the only two people living on Grapevine Road.

The team’s playing well, leading the division, on the way to their first play-off berth in years. People talk about it all the time in school.

That’s great, I say. Good for them.

Megan and Bobby are out in the open now, walking hand in hand down the hall, looking smug and cheerful, so proud of each other. He must’ve pumped a ton of iron over the summer because he’s huge across the chest and shoulders, way bigger than he used to be. I’m not working out and my own muscles are shrinking. It’s like I have a slow leak in the top of my head, like all the air’s going out of me.

I see them kissing in the parking lot one morning. She’s up on her tiptoes, her hand jammed into the back pocket of his jeans.

I’m having trouble in math class again, but I really don’t think it’s because something’s wrong with my brain.

I’m pretty sure I just suck at math.

I play Xbox until my eyes feel like marbles.

I surf a lot of porn, too, find my way to stuff I don’t want to see, but can’t take my eyes off. Some of the girls look so lost, like they don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. It’s like watching zombies.

Never again, I tell myself.

Then I wash my hands and start cooking dinner. My mother’s always so pleased when she comes home from work and there’s water boiling on the stove.

Thank you, Clay. You’re a really big help.

You’re welcome, Mom .

It’s a long month.

THEY HOLD the bonfire pep rally the night before Thanksgiving. It’s a famous local tradition, one of the biggest social events of the year. Hundreds of people show up, including lots of college kids home for the holiday.

I leave my house around seven-thirty, walking because it’s impossible to park anywhere near the blaze. It’s a damp raw night, and I’m surprised to see Mrs. Scotto still on the job, dragging one of her YARD WASTE bags from the garage to the curb. It must be pretty heavy because she has to stop every few steps to catch her breath and adjust her grip. I keep my head down, pretending not to notice when she waves.

I don’t want to go to the rally, but I promised my buddies I’d make an appearance. They’re already pissed at me for blowing off the last two games, tired of hearing me blame it on Megan, even though it’s true: I can’t bear to see her shaking her pom-poms, looking so pretty, so totally focused, like she’s doing the one thing she was put on earth to do, biting her knuckles when the team’s down, jumping for joy when they score a touchdown. The guys don’t say so, but they think I’m being a pussy, wasting my senior year.

Fuck her, they told me at lunch. You’re better off without her.

Forget about Megan. There’s tons of cute sophomores.

It’s the bonfire, dude. Whaddaya gonna do? Sit home and whack off all night?

I TAKE the long way around to avoid the crowd, entering the park at East Street, cutting through the woods and across the soccer fields toward the smoke and the noise. I stop at the top of the sledding hill, looking down on the fire, which they build on the infield of the softball diamond below.

It’s pretty impressive, a ten-foot tower of lumber with a festive mob gathered around, watching the flames lick their way up from the bottom of the structure, a modest blaze building slowly into an inferno. There’s an ambulance and a fire truck parked on the outfield grass, not far from the marching band. They’re not marching, though — too dark, I guess — just standing in place as they play the Gary Glitter song, the whole crowd shouting “Hey!” in unison and punching at the air, just like at a game. I remember what it feels like to be down there by the flames, the heat and the music and the flushed faces, people you don’t even know slapping you on the back, telling you to go get ’em, get out there tomorrow and kick some ass.

I can see the team from here. They’re gathered in a clump near third base, a lot of big guys in dark jerseys, their numbers clearly visible in the fireglow. There’s Rick and Keyshawn and Larry and the rest of them, mingling with cheerleaders and parents and random kids from school. It looks like a good time.

All I have to do is walk down the hill and join the party. I know I’m welcome: the guys have told me so a hundred times. But I can also see Bobby down there — the numbers on his jersey seem a little too bright, almost radioactive — and a dim shape beside him that must be Megan, so I just stay where I am, watching sparks fountain into the sky every time a piece of wood shifts position.