Page 22 of You Belong With Me

Imogen blinked at me in surprise, then at Ainsley, who shrugged back at her.

“I really didn’t mean anything by it,” I continued. “I was just curious. I was going to ask where Lavender was too.”

Okay, maybe that was a lie, but it was one that made Imogen’s face clear, so it was for the best. I really hadn’t meant to upset her. I would have to be more careful about not asking after Sebastian in front of them, but that was probably a good practice for me to adopt, anyway. I didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions about why I was so interested in him. Besides, Sebastian had given no indication that he’d thought about the kiss since the night it happened, so maybe it was time that I let go of it too.

We all headed downstairs so we could leave for the game—which, Ainsley whispered to me on the stairs, Sebastian had already left for a while ago—and met up with Mrs. Novak, who was waiting by the door.

“Well, don’t you three just look lovely?” she asked. “Maybe I should get a photo.”

Imogen and Ainsley both immediately groaned. The reaction was enough to tell me that this was a consistent event in their house.

“Mum, we don’t need a photo every time we go to a soccer game,” Ainsley said.

“Oh, please, just one, just one,” Mrs. Novak said, and she grabbed a digital camera sitting on a table by the door. I assumed she meant she just wanted a photo of her daughters, so I tried to step aside, but she immediately instructed me to move in closer with the girls. Neither Imogen nor Ainsley seemed surprised at the request, so I tried to act like I wasn’t either, even though I couldn’t imagine my mom ever wanting a photo of my friends, like Mrs. Novak was doing now.

The flash went off three times in quick succession, leaving me seeing stars. As soon as Mrs. Novak dropped her arms so she could look at the photos, Ainsley moved in to try to take the camera from her mom, who immediately moved away. Ainsley kept going for it and the ensuing struggle meant that her mom took a couple more photos, probably awful angles of Ainsley standing over it.

I watched from the sidelines, both laughing and feeling a small ache in my chest. It was great to see the Novaks getting along so well, but it hurt me at the same time, because I knew that my mom and I would never have an interaction like that. She would never let her guard down enough to just enjoy the moment. She’d taken plenty of photos of us but never candid ones like this. She would only do it when she had chosen what I was going to wear, placed me in the right spot, and taken the perfect photo, then told everybody, “Oh look, I just happened to catch my daughter on her way out the door and look how cute she looks.” It was all fake. Everything was fake in her world.

And so, watching this—a genuine, real interactionbetween Mrs. Novak and Ainsley—made my heart hurt so much that I desperately wanted to look away. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because even if it wasn’t my mom who had taken a photo of me tonight, at least someone had. At least there would be photographic proof that I’d gone to this soccer game, looking as imperfect as I did. At least there was somebody’s mother who cared enough to capture the moment.

“Alright, we’re going to be late, Mum,” Imogen said, as Mrs. Novak managed to get the camera out of Ainsley’s grasp. “Can we go?”

“Let me just get my purse,” she said. She put the camera down on the side table and headed off. Ainsley and Imogen both glanced at it and then at each other.

“We could delete the photos,” Imogen said. Ainsley seemed to consider it for a moment, and I wondered why they would ever want to delete those photos. Why would they want to delete the proof of those moments that I wanted so badly to have? Did they not understand how lucky they were? How much I wanted to be them?

I looked at the wall of photos going up the stairs. Every child was featured equally, without any of the unbalanced “oldest child gets more attention” that existed in my house. But as I looked around the house at all their various photos, there was one person missing from all of them. It was like they had all collectively decided to pretend that their dad hadn’t existed, to take away any memory of him. And I realized that if I wanted to have their lives, it didn’t just mean having the perfect mom—it meant having the worst dad too.

My parents weren’t perfect by any means, and theydrove me up the wall half the time, but was this life any better? Would I trade the imperfect family I had for another imperfect one? I didn’t think so. And I wasn’t sure that either of these girls would trade their situation to be in my life either—both parents, but neither of them ever showing you love.

It only became clearer with every passing minute at the game that I knew nothing about soccer. I had a basic grasp of the game: players kick ball, ball goes in net, team scores a goal.But all the intricacies of fouls, penalty shots, what calls the refs were making, and what was okay or not were beyond me. It was also much more violent than I was expecting, which wasn’t what I remembered it being like in gym class. I followed Ainsley and Imogen’s lead, cheering along and yelling Sebastian’s name, and I managed to follow the score because of the giant scoreboard, but that was the extent of my participation as an audience member.

At halftime, Ainsley and I left Imogen with our stuff and went down to the concession stand. I didn’t even know that was a thing at these games and told Ainsley that as we were pushed down the steps by the large crowd. I couldn’t believe how many people had showed up to a soccer game on a Wednesday night, but I guess with being less than three weeks into the school year and the weather being warm, everyone had more school spirit than they would later in the year.

The crowd broke off as we reached thebottom of the bleachers and everyone split off into different directions, some headed to the parking lot to smoke or get stuff from their cars, some going inside to the bathrooms, and Ainsley pulling me toward the playground on the outskirts of the school property, where she said the concession stand ran to be out of the way.

“You’re telling me there’s an actual concession stand at these games?” I asked Ainsley. “I guess we need to step up our game at swim meets.”

Not that there was anywhere for there to be a concession stand or a crowd big enough to warrant one at swim meets. But it was obvious from the crowd that showed up here that there was a hierarchy of which sports got attention and swimming was at the bottom. Maybe that was for the best for me, though, because if the crowds were any bigger for us, I would probably pass out in the pool.

“Well, ‘actual’ is probably a loose term for it,” Ainsley said. “The student council runs it, as a way to raise money for the school. They do it at the soccer, football, and basketball games.”

She wasn’t kidding when she said the stand was being run from the playground. They had a whole set up on the walkway beside the playground, with people lining up along the wood chips. Ahead of us, there was a group of girls squished onto the bottom of the slide and taking selfies and a boy leaning against one of the ladders of the play structure as he chatted on the phone.

Without the full crowd around us and standing still, the cool air of the night was starting to settle in over me. I crossed my arms and shivered, wishing I’d worn a warmer shirt.

“Are you cold?” Ainsley asked. She immediately started slipping her leather jacket off her shoulders like she was going to hand it to me and leave her in just her tank top, and I quickly stopped her.

“I’m fine,” I said, laughing a little. She had to be the sweetest person I’d ever met to offer that up so easily to a girl she barely even knew. “So, what options do they have here? I don’t see a sign.”

I glanced around for a chalkboard or something listing what I could get but there was nothing. I guess the stand ran on a “you should know what we offer” model, which was an interesting choice so early into the school year.

“Don’t worry,” Ainsley said, “I’ll order for you.”

I considered pointing out that she probably had no idea what I liked since we barely knew each other, but since I didn’t have any better option, I agreed. Besides, she came to these games so frequently that she must know what was good. But once she ordered and handed over the hot chocolate and popcorn she got me, she didn’t exactly make me excited about them.

“This is probably the best thing you’re ever going to taste in your life,” she said, “but be careful. It will either be so hot that it burns your mouth or so cold that it might as well be chocolate milk, and you never know which way it’s going to go.”

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