Page 12 of Sidelined

"Anything is an analogy for anything if you think about it hard enough," she said.

Now she seemed uncomfortable. I almost regretted it, but the pink in her cheeks made the flirting worthwhile.

I leaned forward. "Yeah, but when she talks about riding the horse, you know she's not talking about a horse. She's talking about—"

"I know what she's talking about," Becky said quickly. "But you need to focus on what is going to help you pass English. Not biology."

I laughed. "Or sex education." I wondered if she'd ever done it. If I had to guess, I'd say she hadn't. I'd also guess she wouldn't tell me if I asked.

"Yeah, or that," she muttered. "Poetry, or any other kind of literature, is always open to interpretation. Every reader brings their experiences to the piece of work. No one expects you to respond to it in the same way as someone else would. But Mr Leggit is going to expect you to keep your analysis clean."

"Mr Leggit is a killjoy," I said.

Bec laughed. "Maybe, but this is all about you passing."

"Rule number one, don't piss off the teacher?" I suggested.

"Exactly." Bec leaned over to pick up her soda from the table.

I looked right down the front of her shirt. She wore a pink bra, with a little ribbon at the front. In the middle of each cup, was a darker spot right where her perky nipples sat up, looking back at me.

My hand twitched toward them.

Bec sat back up.

I cleared my throat, laced my fingers and placed my hands behind my head.

"So," I said, my voice a little higher than usual. "The trick is to figure out what the teacher wants, and give it to them." I should choose my words more carefully, because I was even harder now.

"Um." It seemed like she was picking up on the vibes too. "I guess you could say that. Football is probably similar. I mean, interpreting the way the coach wants you to play, and all that."

I nodded. "When you put it that way, I suppose it is. And figuring out the opposition’s strengths and weaknesses. It's like trying to interpret poetry. You think the team is trying to tell you one thing, but they’re trying to tell you another. You know?"

"Like…" she said slowly, "they want you to think they're going to run down the right side of the field, but they’re really going to run down the left?"

"Right. Like the poet who wrote that," I nodded towards the sheet of paper in her hand, "was talking about horses, but thinking about getting some dick." I grinned.

"Or she was thinking about getting from point A to point B," Bec said. "She talks about traveling."

"That could be literally traveling, or one of those spiritual journey type things," I said. "She also talked about finding herself."

Bec looked surprised. "Yes, she does. I hadn't thought about it like that." She cocked her head at me. "If I didn't know better, I'd think youlikedpoetry."

I pretended to look horrified. "Don't tell anyone."

She made a gesture of zipping her lips and throwing away the key. "No one will hear it from me. Not even Mr Leggit."

"He wouldn't believe you anyway," I said. "He thinks all I think about is football."

"Is he wrong?" Bec asked.

"I think about a lot of things," I said. Like pulling down the cup of Bec's bra and running my tongue over her pink skin. "You seem to know a thing or two about football."

"I've been to a few games," she admitted. "You know, school spirit and all that."

"You're full of surprises," I said. She really was. The more I got to know her, the more I liked her. It was more than teenage lust. She was smart and sweet; very different from the girls I dated.

"I don't know about that," she said. She looked down toward her knees. "I think it's time for a break. I don't suppose you want to—" She leaned over to pull her bag into her lap and rummaged around inside.

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