A Little More Than Xs And Os

So now I know

I love Saturdays. And not to mention any sort of breaks that we get from school. Tomorrow's Thanksgiving so we have a longer weekend. I can walk around the house all day in my pajamas. That is, until Peyton calls and tells me to meet her at school.

"It's Wednesday and there's no school. I'm not going to school on a practical Saturday." I told her when she called at 8 a.m. I repeat, 8 a.m. "You want to be on the football team, don't you?" I could practically see her rolling her eyes at me over the phone. "I guess."

And that's why I'm heading to school at 9 a.m, taking my sweet precious time to get there. I finally pull into the school parking lot and see her waiting there. "'Bout time." Her southern accent comes out. I close the car door. "Sorry, I'm not use to waking up at 8 a.m on weekends and having to get dressed."

She looks at me with a disgusted face. "You mean you don't shower on the weekends?" I look at her with a stupid face. "Not on Saturday. I stay in my pajamas all day." She rolls her eyes. "I will never understand you."

Normally, I'd let a comment like that roll off my back, but for some reason, it bothers me. "And I will never understand you. You act completely different when you're at school and outside of school."

She seems to let my comment go without thought and practically struts to the football field. "And another thing! You make comments to me like that and then ignore me when I make one back! Peyton!" I yell her name and jerk her arm and finally she faces me. "Give me an answer." I demand, and she looks away. I feel my face flush with anger. "Come on." She takes my wrist as she says it.

I give up on fighting this side of her. It's infuriating. When we reach the bottom of the bleachers, she sets down a binder. "I'm getting you on the football team. Training starts now."

I look at her in disbelief. "So you choose 9 a.m as the best time to start?" I finish the sentence with a groan and she chunks a football at me, me just barely catching it. "Make a lap around the field. Don't drop the ball at all. If you do this successfully, well, I'm not telling you what's next."

She can be such a nice person. Hint the sarcasm. I do what she says, though. I can't explain it, but I really do want to be on the football team again, even if it does mean working with a bunch of pain-in-the-butt jocks.

I'm glad I'm still in shape because otherwise that lap would've been torturous. I know the drill is to see if I'm in shape still because a person not in shape would've had a hard time running and keeping the ball in their hands. I look up at her in the bleachers and she writes something in her binder. "Fun run," she yells to me. I go to run and then realize what that term actually means. "How many?" I ask hesitantly. She holds up her hand without looking at me; 1. Okay, I can definitely do this, piece of cake.

I start the fun run. For those of you who don't know this term, it's basically running to one point, coming back, running to half court or field, coming back, running to an even farther point, coming back, and then running to the very end of the court or field and coming back. "And you're being timed!" Peyton shouts to me as I was about to start.

I can usually do these in a minute and a half. Let's hope that's still my record. "Go!" she yells at me. I run and touch the first line in a bolt. Running back, I wonder if I can do better than what I've been timed for. Would Peyton be impressed? Why do I want to impress Peyton?

I didn't realize until I came out from my stage of thinking that I was already at half point. I run back to the beginning line, touch and sprint to the next, the whole time sweating like a pig. But sweat shows hard work.

If I keep distracting myself, I'll get it done faster. At this stage in my thinking, I'm already headed for the last line. I push myself to go the distance and run back, faster than I thought I could. I tag the beginning line and yell "Done!" while she scribbles something on the binder.