Page 2 of The Charm of You

My father died almost four years ago, and since then, I haven’t gotten close to anyone.

Embarrassingly enough, Judd is the closest thing to a friend I have. Being the new kid in a small, tight-knit town isn’t easy. But being the new kid whose father passed away and whose mother is in a deep state of grief is downright miserable.

My plate is full. It’s why I don’t share in my peers’ hobbies of bonfires and illegal drinking of moonshine and whatever else they can get their hands on.

I have responsibilities most of them can’t fathom.

I follow the smell of popcorn and hot dogs toward the concession stand nestled underneath the bleachers. I could use a cheap snack, so I slide into the shortest line. The game should start any minute, and I have plans to leave around halftime, especially if none of the other guys from the vocational school are here.

We’re not the kind of friends who share a text chain, but in class earlier, some of them mentioned coming out tonight.

With a plain hot dog in hand, I maneuver through a few families, some with giggling children and others with screaming minions. Wincing, I skirt around to the far side of the bleachers, opposite the way I came in.

This side is much quieter.

I barely make it around the corner of the concession stand when I hear something to my right.

Hunched into a ball, head buried in her knees, is Caroline Summers.

I can’t see her face, but I’d recognize her anywhere. It’s hard not to. She’s the most well-known—and well-liked—girl in school. For good reason, too.

She’s bright and friendly. She’s involved with most school events, and everyone loves her. It’s why she was voted for homecoming queen—one ballot I very clearly remember filling out.

I sat behind her in Spanish our sophomore year, and it was hard to concentrate on lessons of proper subject-verb agreements. All I could think about was her sweet perfume. It reminded me of cotton candy.

As I near Caroline, she sniffles. Is she crying?

Shit.

We’ve barely ever talked. Should I leave her be? Call for one of her friends to check on her?

I take a step, and the gravel beneath my shoe crunches. She startles and shoots upright, smoothing her cheerleader uniform over her slender thighs.

“Hi,” she squeaks and uses her thumb to swipe under her eyes. “You ready for the game? I know a lot of people say we’re the underdogs against the Dolphins, but I think we’ve totally got this.” Her voice shakes as she tries to muster what I assume is a peppy cheerleading tone. It sounds nothing like the girl who gives morning announcements once a week, and it’s certainly different than the one who sings at the annual talent show.

Her usual voice practically drips with honey. It’s smooth and joyful, like it’s Christmas every week.

And the shameful truth is that I, like many other guys I’ve heard snickering and dreaming out loud in the halls of our school, have a huge, pathetic crush on Caroline Summers.

I cautiously join her in the dim corner, where shadows pass from the people on the bleachers above us. Their dark figures put on a puppet show, and their muffled chatter is more similar to the static of a radio station or a TV channel from down here.

It kind of feels like she and I are alone.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Fine,” she forcefully chirps and clears her throat. “Just got some… dirt… in my eyes.”

“I’ll get you a bottle of water.”

“No need.” She grips my hand, and I hiss a low curse. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

I pull my bandaged hand back, and I can almost feel the imprints of her fingers there. “No problem.” I grunt as the wound sends throbbing waves throughout my palm.

“What happened?”

“Woodworking accident” is all I offer. I’m more concerned with what happened to her.

“Yikes.” She releases a nervous laugh.

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