Page 206 of Vicious Saint
Seriously?
Now he decides to show mercy?
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Besides, not like The Partridge Family will allow it.”
Being together at the homecoming game…a tradition Vic announced we should start the second we got here, rightbefore his precious little princess took off to hang with the cheerleaders.
If I learned anything the past few weeks, it’s that change is rarely foreseen and always causes a ripple effect.
Take my new dorm room, for example.
A single, almost identical to Saint and Theory’s.
An obvious apology from Vic, who’s been more than privy to the tension between me and his delightful offspring, failing in his attempt to bridge the gaps.
Saint barking out colors and numbers pulls my attention back to the field, where a few guys switch positions, and he follows up with a “hike.”
Both teams scatter like mice, some running down the field and hurling past their opponents or tackling them to the ground. All swift, precise, and disturbingly violent movements which seem to come very easy to a bunch of high school kids.
Specifically the ones from Riverside.
And Saint? I hate to admit it, but the guy stands in a category all his own. Confidence emanates off him as he scours the field, not breaking focus even though numerous guys are pummeling toward him ready to tackle the soul from his body.
Saint’s teammates do their part protecting him long enough for him to cock back the ball and launch it across the field into Leviathan's hands with a perfect spiral.
Again.
Regardless of how many times their opponent’s coach is heard screaming for his players to stay on him, they don’t. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s because they’re scared to.
Contrary to the rules, the game continues on this way, with The Royals practically beheading people and Saint calling the shots. It’s like being caught up in a modern day colosseum, where more violence equals more worshipping from the crowd.
Even from a righteous Vic.
As enthusiastic as Archer was about the importance of this game, it quickly becomes a bore for both of us. So, we spend the next hour of it having conversations that have nothing to do with tossing a football or heads.
T.V. shows, music, drama club, drawing.
The fucking weather and his recent bout of diarrhea.
You name it, we’re speaking about it.
And haven’t stopped yet with the last one.
“Thought for sure I wouldn’t make it to the bathroom.” Archer cringes. “I was right.”
I choke on my Pepsi. “Shut the fuck up. You, Archer Beaumont, didnotshit your pants.”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
My cackle is equal parts wheeze and snort, both going on long enough for everyone around us who isn’t my mom or Vic to grow agitated. Seems any enjoyment outside murder by Royals warrants dirty looks and scoffs. Plus a tap on my shoulder.
When I turn, I find some Karen with a horrendous blonde bob like a nest on her head.
“Do you mind?” She narrows her eyes. “I’m trying to enjoy the game.”
Oh, lady, you picked the wrong girl and the wrong time.
I hit her with a sweet smile. “Bet you’d enjoy it more if you pulled the stick out of your ass.”
