I walked through the school parking lot Monday morning feeling the opposite of how I felt in this same place only 3 days ago. While Friday night had been awful, Saturday night being spent laughing and drinking Pinot with Rosie had re-fuelled my ability to put a smile on my face.
Talking with Rosie on Saturday night had set my mind at ease over what was happening between us. I had to put it down to not having a whole bunch of girl-friend's back in San Francisco. All these butterflies in my stomach when she would smile, my accelerated heat beat when she briefly brushed against me, obviously by accident. All of those things have to be from nerves. Nerves and loneliness.
Anxiety mixed with homesickness for San Francisco aside, I knew this week would be better. I had not spoken to Rosie since I, mid-glass, had received a text message from my mother saying her and my father were 5 minutes from the house. The rush to hide the half-empty bottle and get Rosie out the back door had put us into a fit of laughter as I all but pushed her out the back door.
On my first step through the main wooden doors, I was met with an onslaught of black and yellow. It was as if a bumblebee had thrown up on the corridors and painted them with the school sports colours. I shelved that question for the moment and re-adjusted my grip on the mocha-latte in my hand. There was one person I was looking for.
I reached the first-floor locker area, and spotted Liv emptying the contents of her handbag into her locker. From the distance I was at I could already see the multiple sets of highlighters and fluorescent post-it notes.
I walked up to an oblivious Liv, who only noticed I had arrived due to the whiff of the coffee in my hand. Her dark brown eyes spotted the cup first, before meeting mine. I could visibly see the light dim and I felt the anchor in my stomach drop. I had to make this right.
"I am so sorry for what I said to you on Friday," I started. I had regretted it the second I spoke, and the anger was not directed at her in the slightest. After relaying this to Liv, I saw the resolve on her face, and know that while it would not be forgotten, my out-burst was forgiven.
"Here," I handed her the mocha-latte and watched a smile appear.
"You really didn't have too-" she started while brining a second hand around the cup.
"I wanted to," I smile at her. After taking a sip, flashing me a smile, Liv turned back to her locker and pulled out a notepad. With one hand navigating, she fished out a couple loose pages and handed them to me. It was the notes from the class I had missed on Friday.
"You've only been here a week, and you must be home-sick as Hell. I'll stop with the questions about San Francisco." With that we hugged at the sound of the warning bell. Liv closed her locker, linked my arm, and we made our way to home room.
The class was almost full when we arrived. Rosie and Natalie were in deep conversation when Liv and I sat down.
"-I just don't think we should change it yet," Natalie rushed out, obviously hoping Liv and I would not pick up on the tail of the conversation. Liv did not seem to hear, but I glanced over at Rosie's side profile as I sat down.
"We'll see how Friday goes," she settled, pushing her hair over her shoulder and turning in her chair to look at me. "Hey," she grinned at me.
"Hey yourself," I found myself grinning back, the sound of Natalie scoffing in the background was almost music to my ears. Rosie turned back to face Mr James, who had recovered from his stomach flu/syphilis impediment. After running through the majority of the announcements, the final one was that of a football game this Friday night.
There was a collection of supportive yells from the football players in the back, which caused a slight series of chatter before Mr James insisted on quiet. After finalising the attendance with a few late arrivals, the formality of the class was over.
Instantly, Rosie and Natalie turned in their chairs to face myself and Liv.
"I think we should go casual," Rosie declared, and it took me a moment to realise we were talking about the game on Friday. "Just black and yellow ribbons in our hair,". Natalie was nodding along with her cousin but Liv groaned in disapproval.
"But it's Samantha's first game, we always go all out for the games. And Rosie, you're dating one of the players, why are we going casual?" She questioned. I knew why Rosie had no intention of dressing up for Brandon, I also knew the two were not dating. I met Rosie's gaze briefly and that told me enough. The other girls thought the relationship was real.
"Because Ashley will be the one in full paint and colours," Natalie explained to Liv, as if it was obvious. I had not thought of Ashley as anyone of importance since my arrival. I had only been at school a week and already this quartet had become a trio plus the new girl. "Besides, we'll do the number thing," Natalie offered which Liv seemed to like the idea of.
Rosie nodded but nobody elaborated.
"What number thing?" I asked. Natalie formed a mischievous smile, like she had the upper hand, as usual.
"It's kind of a tradition to put an eyeliner number on your cheek of the guy on the team you have a crush on," she smirked. "It started off kind of cute, girls whose boyfriends had basically forgotten to ask them to prom would put his number on their face. Now, it's more of an FYI thing," she shrugged.
I was clearly still confused, but Liv came to my rescue.
"If you spot a cute guy on the team, and you want to hook up with him, you can put his number on your cheek so he knows you're interested," Liv explained and suddenly it all made sense. "What number is Brandon, Rosie?" Liv asked.
"Seven," Rosie muttered. Her gaze was somewhere over my shoulder. I subtly turned around and saw the object of her gaze. Ashely was sitting, surrounded by football players. Her hands were animated as she was clearly telling a story in which some person was probably the subject of her inflicted embarrassment. An eruption of laughs caused me to turn back around with Ashley's being the loudest.
Rosie was still watching the show, but Natalie was openly glaring at me until we heard Rosie gasp.
"My parents are having their dinner party on Friday," She proclaimed, her shoulders slumping with the motion.
"You can get ready at my place," Natalie re-assures her, but the second the words are out the regret of them took place on her face.
"Liv and Samantha too?" Rosie asked, although it was not a question.
"Sure," Natalie bites out as the bell rings and we are let go to out next class.
The remainder of the day passed by with little excitement. I frequently found myself wondering about the game on Friday. More so, I wondered if I should write a number on my cheek. Boys were the last thing on my mind. Even back in San Francisco the only guy I ever did anything with was Jake.
Jake was not a football guy. None of my friends from San Francisco were. Most of our weekends had been spent at the beach surfing and going to events organised by charities our parents were involved with. And by involved, the extent was a fat cheque and a picture for the paper. The idea of writing a random boy's football number on my cheek made my stomach turn. Would I look like the odd man out if I just did not do it? Alternatively, what would it mean if I did write a boy's number on my cheek?
When school was over, my mind was still racing with all the unanswered questions about Friday. Not in the head-space to drive home, I wandered the campus and found the football field. Seeing that practise was happening, I walked up into the bleachers and sat down.
Seeing I was not alone in my actions, I took out my biology text book and tried to focus on some homework questions. The sounds of the pads hitting each other, and the ball being kicked from one end of the field to the other acted as a catalyst for my mind to go back to Friday.
I looked up and watched some of the practice. The guys were not bad looking, I had to admit it to myself. Without intention, I suddenly caught the gaze of sandy-haired player. He held my gaze as he jogged to a small group of players. I spot Brandon's number seven, and the player starts a conversation with him.
Still watching, I see Brandon look up to where I am sitting and nod his head as he speaks to the player. That is when I realise, they are talking about me.
Looking back at my biology, I try to pretend that the pair had not caught me looking.
A gust of wind suddenly wafts up a smell I had not sensed since leaving San Francisco. There was an over-powering smell of weed. I looked around and nobody near me seemed to be smoking, so I assumed it was people under the bleachers.
Not a fan, I started to pack up my things to go. But as I picked up my bag, a textbook slips out and under the bench in front of me. Reaching down for it, I suddenly hear the same loud laugh that I heard in home-room this morning.
It cannot be-
"I swear her 'I'm so innocent' 'I'm so helpless' look is so fake, I guarantee she was a bigger bitch than Natalie back in San Francisco,"
It was.
I could only imagine the wild arm gestures Ashley was making to prove her point about how horrible a person I am. I have pretty thick skin. I can handle a person making fun of me. I do not like it, but I can handle it. The problem is that this is Ashley. I took her spot in the friend group, I pushed her out. I could not be the one to fight back on this, I had to let it go. Then I heard it.
"I swear, last week in home room, I thought she was going to get under the table and start humping Rosie's leg!" Ashley laughed and I felt my body go cold.
"So, San Fran is a dyke?" A different voice asked. I could feel my blood start to boil, a stark contrast from the chill I felt at Ashley's initial comment. Whatever Ashley was implying was not something to be joked, mocked, or gossiped about. A feeling of defensiveness came over me, and I felt the urge to say screw you and go down and give her and her smoking buddies a slap.
"Nah, she's got a stick so far up her ass she wouldn't be able to get herself off let alone another girl," Ashley scoffed. Screw it.
I picked up my text book, put my bag over my shoulder, and started down the bleacher steps to put Ashley in her place. Walking passed some of the football players, I accidently lock eyes with the same sandy-haired boy as before. He is putting his helmet on over his head, and I glance at the number on his shirt.
A new idea takes root as the number eighteen flashes me a grin before running off.
I do not need to tell Ashley I am not a prude, I can just show her.